The Knight and the Warlock
by Sings-off-key
Summary: NWN2 OC. Jess has dedicated her life to becoming an eldritch knight. As the time approaches to face the King of Shadows, she wonders what exactly she has missed... Another of my 'unusual pairings', mwahaha! Now complete and revised.
1. A Big Problem

**Chapter 1…A Big Problem**

_It was the evening of my lonely vigil at the Solace Glade. Once the sun went down, the air had turned chill so I pulled my wool cloak tighter around me. My thin robes, made from silk from Kara-Tur and enchanted with every protection I could afford, did not provide much warmth. I poked at the fire until sparks flew up into the sky and then I threw on another log. I should have gathered more firewood earlier. What I had would not make it through the night._

_I heard footsteps in the dark. Staring into the flames had destroyed my night vision and I could not see who approached. I stepped back from the fire and put my hand on the hilt of my sword._

"_Who is it?" I whispered._

_A tall figure stepped into the firelight._

"_It is I."_

_My hand dropped away from my weapon. It was Sir Grayson Corett, the man I had promised to serve as my knight. I was here standing vigil on this sacred ground so that I could be declared his squire. All politics, of course, for the cause I served now was greater than Neverwinter. _

_He shouldn't have been here. He stepped closer and gave me a grave look. Instead of the armor he had worn earlier when he had left me to my meditations, he was now wearing a simple tunic and leggings that nicely accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow hips. He stood before me, his eyes so serious that I became even more alarmed._

"_Is there a problem, Sir Grayson?"_

"_There is indeed a problem," he said in his slow, measured tones. "I find that I cannot take you as my squire after all."_

"_But why?" I searched my conscience but could not think of anything I had done wrong—that he could have known about._

"_This is why," he said and suddenly his arms enveloped me in a passionate embrace. I molded myself to him as his head came down and his lips met mine. He buried his hands in my hair and his kiss, tender at first, became harder and more insistent._

"_I love you, Jess," he murmured. "The moment I saw you in Captain Brelaina's office, I knew that you were the woman I had waited for my whole life." He pressed the length of his body against me. He was deliciously warm. My arms went shyly around his waist. I had never touched a man so intimately. _

_Well, except to kill him, or maybe to loot his corpse._

"_I must have you as my wife, not my squire," he said. "Please, my darling, say that you will let me make love to you here under the stars. Let me pledge my love to you with my body."_

"_Yes," I sighed as his hands dropped to the ties holding my robe closed. I felt his hands warm on my bare flesh…_

And then I woke up.

Hells, hells, hells.

Not again.

I had had erotic dreams almost every night lately and the cast of characters had become increasingly…bizarre. Casavir, Bishop, Sand—they were to be expected, I supposed. I had traveled with them for quite some time and they were all, in their own separate ways, very attractive men. But I had also dreamed about Sir Nevalle—Jacoby from the smithy—my childhood friend Bevil—and a handsome Greycloak who manned the front gates, whose name I didn't even know. It was getting to be a problem. A big problem.

And the sad part was that as the King of Shadows grew in strength, it seemed all too likely that I would die as I had lived—untouched. I had never even been kissed. I sighed at the sheer wastefulness of it all.

Getting back to sleep was going to be difficult, I knew from experience. I knew better than to go back to bed yet. I threw an old robe over my nightgown and crept out of my room. It was late and the keep was very quiet. The stones were icy under my bare feet but I was used to that. I paused outside the library with my hand on the door latch. I ought to study awhile. There was a spell I was working on but Sand wouldn't teach me the hand motions until I had the words down perfectly.

I passed the library and headed for the kitchen. I wasn't sure I could concentrate and a snack was a better idea.

The kitchen was dark, the fires banked for the night. A drink was an even better idea than a snack, so I headed for the cellars. I cast a light spell so I wouldn't break my neck going down the rickety stairs that Master Veedle hadn't gotten around to assigning someone to repair. Maybe I should get Kana to give him one of her gentle reminders before we lost a cook. With so many mouths to feed, a cook was more essential than a Greycloak.

The keep's cellars were huge. Between what Lord Nasher had sent us as a 'victory gift', the excess supplies that Sal had ordered for the tavern and had no room to store, and various potables confiscated from bandits and smugglers, there were bottles and kegs everywhere. All I wanted was a damned bottle of wine. There were too many choices and with my luck, I'd end up with something nasty.

"What are you doing here?" a rough voice said behind me. I about jumped out of my skin. It was Ammon Jerro, in the plain robe and leggings he wore around the keep, looking like he had never gone to bed at all. He gave me one of his searching looks.

"I had a dream," I said. "I can't sleep."

"A nightmare? A prophecy?" he asked. He pulled a bottle seemingly at random from one of the racks. "Wine won't help, you know."

"Nothing like that," I said and I flushed. I couldn't help it. He looked at me a moment and then turned away. I followed him up the stairs into the kitchen, and sat at the kitchen table while he fetched a corkscrew and two mugs. He seemed to know where everything was kept.

"Why are you still up?" I asked.

"I sleep little these days," he said cryptically. His tattoos glowed in the dim light, limning the rather elegant shape of his head. I tried not to stare but I found them fascinating.

"Nightmares?" I asked but he just grunted in response. If anyone was likely to suffer from bad dreams, surely it was Ammon. He had seen things the rest of us could scarcely imagine. And yet, unlike some in our little menagerie, he rarely complained. It was refreshing.

"A young, healthy and active person like you should have no problem sleeping at night," he said, a little condescendingly, I thought.

"Yeah, well, that's the problem actually," I muttered to myself but he heard me. He gave me an inquiring look.

"I spar for hours each day," I said. "I work hard on my spells too. And then there is all the planning for the keep. Not to mention having to go out and kill zombies and bandits and dire beasts every time I turn around. And still, when I go to bed, it seems like all I can think about is…" My brain finally caught up with my mouth and made it stop running. Was I really about to tell Ammon Jerro, the most dangerous man I'd ever met, that all I could think about was sex?

Ammon gave a bark of laughter. Obviously I'd already said enough.

I took a big gulp from my mug and almost choked. Last time I had tasted wine this fine was on a feast day.

"If you have a need, deal with it," he said. "You've got two men squaring off like roosters in a barnyard to bed you. By the Nine Hells, you have a whole keep full of soldiers who think you are a hero, if those two are not to your taste. Pick one."

"Well, there's the problem," I said frankly. "How am I supposed to choose?"

"Take two or three then. You're young and healthy." A beat. "Surely the githzerai can brew you up a contraceptive potion." I flushed yet again.

"It's not that easy," I said. "I'm the Knight-Captain. I can't just order one of my soldiers to report to my bedroom. Can I? I'm pretty sure Kana would be all over me if I tried." He snorted. "Besides, this place is a hotbed of gossip and I really don't want to get another lecture from Sir Nevalle on the conduct expected of a member of the Nine." I sighed. "And then there's Casavir and Bishop. They don't get along as it is and what do you think would happen if I decided to sleep with one of them? Besides…"

He lifted one brow, which made his tattoos shift interestingly.

"I like them both but…not that way. Casavir, well, he deserves someone who can make a commitment and I'm just not ready to do that. I don't know if I ever will be. And Bishop—I don't want the first man I go to bed with to be someone I'd be afraid to actually sleep alone with."

"The first man?" he asked in some astonishment. Ammon's brows rose even higher and my flush deepened. I really hate being fair skinned.

"I haven't had time for all that. I've been busy," I snapped. And it was true. I had been driven all my life to be both a warrior and a wizard, and I had done so, but it had cost me. I had never had time to do the things others seemed to take for granted. I had never gone to parties or courted a fellow. I had never danced. "I thought you, of all people, would understand."

"I do understand," he said. "Better than you think, perhaps. I would hope you would have the wit not to repeat my errors. Do not get so caught up in your duty that you end up leaving all you fight for behind."

He refilled both our mugs. The wine was strong and dinner had been a long time ago. I took a long swallow and the wine warmed me. I wasn't drunk, of course, but I felt a bit exhilarated. It was such a relief to talk about this, and really, who else could I talk to?

"It's a little late for that," I muttered. "It's too late for me to have a normal life, anyway, and do all the normal things that normal people do. We could die at any time, and probably will. It's a little late to cry about it now. I just wish…" I sighed and then emptied my mug in one long swallow, relaxing my throat like Khelgar had taught me so that it all went down smoothly and quickly. "I wish, just once, I knew what it was like."

"Knew what 'what' was like?"

"You know," I said and then gave Ammon a speculative look. "Hey. You could help me."

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"Yes, I do."

"You could summon up an incubus and send it to my room…"

"That's a very bad idea, Jess," he said impatiently. My mug was empty. Ammon was falling down on the job, so I reached across the table, snagged the bottle, and gave myself a refill.

"I think it's a _great_ idea. I get to satisfy my curiosity and, um, everything else, and no one gets hurt. No upset feelings, no gossip, no issues with the chain of command. Plus you hear all those amazing tales about incubuses…incubi…whatever. Come on, Ammon. Please. Help me out here. I know you can do it."

"No."

"I'm pretty sure I can _order_ you to do this…"

Ammon took the mug out of my hand.

"Go to bed, Jess," he said.


	2. Toughing It Out

**Chapter 2…Toughing It Out**

I felt like crap.

Ammon had been right. Wine didn't help.

Back in another life, I could have slept in and nursed my hangover. Here in my new life as the nominal leader of Crossroad Keep, I'm never late and I never miss a meeting because no one will ever, ever let me.

So I attended the morning briefing washed, dressed and with my hair neatly braided, thanks to the village girl Kana had hired to serve me as a combination of maid and squire. Since I didn't wear armor, her squire duties weren't too onerous. I propped my aching head on my hand, drank my tea, and winced every time someone banged a door out in the hallway or slammed his or her hand on the table to make a point. Tymora smiled. The briefing was blessedly brief.

I skipped breakfast for obvious reasons.

My morning sparring session was with Casavir, and I didn't know if I should have been grateful or sad. I was grateful that his unfailing courtesy kept him from yelling at me for my terrible performance. At this point, a raised voice could have caused me serious injury (Khelgar's bellow would have killed me). I was sad because I hated to disappoint him, and I was having real problems concentrating. Also I felt as green as a swamp beetle.

"Hold," I finally gasped. If I took one more blow I was pretty sure I would throw up. Although a good vomit might make me feel better, chances were that it would make me feel much, much worse. "I'm sorry, Casavir. I'm not feeling too good this morning." His bright blue eyes studied me with concern.

"Are you ill, my lady?"

"No, I just…" The sun chose that moment to wink around one of the stones on top of the keep wall and the sudden glare struck me like a dagger in the eye. I all but whimpered from the pain. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

He took my practice sword from my trembling hands and I turned and headed swiftly for my room. If I took a nap before my lessons with Sand, I might get back to my normal self. Unlike Casavir, Sand would _not_ treat a display of incompetence with kindness or sympathy.

I hoped if I walked quickly and purposefully, everyone would assume I was off on important keep business and would leave me alone. That was the theory anyway. As I pushed the side door open, a smooth voice behind me made my heart leap up and choke me.

"Not on the top of your form today, Knight-Captain," Bishop said, with that sarcastic twist he always gave my title. Now I am the first to admit that I'm just some little swamp farmer with an interesting scar. That's why I have people helping me—I can't do this job alone. The fact that I'm now a Knight-Captain and member of Nasher's Nine is full of ironic humor—but that doesn't mean I enjoy having him thrust that in my face every single day.

"I guess not," I said, totally unable to come up with a witty riposte. He moved to a position where I could not pass without brushing against him and put one hand on the wall to pen me in.

"You are feeling poorly this morning, it seems. That time of the moon, is it?" He smirked.

"That would be it," I lied. "And I'm sure you know how women get, so if you value that hand, Bishop, move it and let me by."

He took his hand off the wall and used it to take me by the chin and tilt my face up to his. He had done what I asked and moved his hand. As moves went, I couldn't say this was a huge improvement. His nostrils flared as he took in my scent. Could he really tell…no, I didn't want to know.

"I see the shadows under your eyes. How long has it been since you've had a good night's sleep?" His voice had dropped low, intimate. I felt a blush heat up my cheeks. "Does the weight of your many responsibilities keep you up at night, Knight-Captain?" A beat and then he whispered in my ear. "Or is there something you need?"

Why in the Nine Hells were the bad men so perceptive and the good men so clueless?

I stared up at him. His lips turned up a little and he moved in closer. His leather armor brushed against my practice robe. The smell of well-worn leather has always made me feel safe—a throwback to my early childhood with Daeghun, no doubt. The look in Bishop's eyes made me feel anything but safe. His head came down and I felt his warm breath against my cheek. Was I about to experience my first kiss with Bishop, a man whose eyes contained nightmares?

The side door opened and I almost fell through it. Bishop was scary but there was a scarier man in the keep and he stood in the doorway. Ammon Jerro gave Bishop one of his daunting looks. Bishop gave me a smirk and sauntered back out towards the courtyard.

"Later," he said.

Ammon's tattoos glowed softly in the blessedly dim corridor.

"I thought you had decided against Bishop."

"I did," I said ruefully. "I've told him before to knock off the flirting. For a ranger, his listening skills don't seem that great."

Ammon grunted in response. I cast him a sideways glance.

"I'm sorry about last night," I said. He raised his brows. "I didn't mean to burden you with my, um, personal problem. It must seem quite petty compared to all we have to deal with."

"It does," he said flatly.

"Oh." I felt strangely crushed. "Well, sorry."

"You are very young," he said. "You are exaggerating the importance of these sorts of relationships."

"That's easy for you to say," I muttered. Considering the fact that until recently he had apparently had dozens of succubi at his beck and call, his words seemed a bit on the hypocritical side.

"And I don't know why you keep harping on about my age," I added. The more I thought about it, the grouchier I got. "I can't help how old I am. The chances aren't that great that I'll get much older, you know." He gave me a wry look in acknowledgement of this.

"Choose the paladin then. He will be a gentle lover. Like you and the rest of us with any perception, he has little expectation of surviving the coming storm."

I flushed up to my eyeballs.

"We went over this last night," I said, highly embarrassed. "And besides—what if I do and it makes him fall from grace? Bishop says…"

"Bishop doesn't know as much about paladins as he likes to think," Ammon snorted. "Still, doing anything that has the potential to weaken one of us at this point would not be prudent." He tapped his fingers on the doorframe. He was thinking about my little problem, I realized hopefully. Because all this sleeplessness was definitely weakening me and that would never do.

A tremendous crash came from the courtyard behind me. I yelped and covered my ears. From the muffled curses I gathered that one of the workers had dropped a large stone from a great height. Considering how much of my gold was spent on hoists and tackles and other paraphernalia of the building trade, you'd think they'd be more careful. Dear gods, did my head pound.

Ammon gave me a thoughtful look.

"You have an idea to help me?" I asked.

"Yes."

"You're going to summon an incubus for me tonight?" I asked hopefully. He gave me a glimmer of a smile and shook his head.

"I'm going to show you where Sand keeps his ale purgatives."

* * *

I thought about Ammon's words as the day dragged on and I realized he was right. Worrying about my love life—or lack of such—was petty, in the scheme of things. It was more important to build up the forces of the keep and work on my own skills. If I could continue to work myself into exhaustion every day, surely my dreams would go away. I just had to tough it out.

Anyway, it wasn't like I was alone in my predicament. Celibacy, either by choice or by circumstance, seemed to be the norm in our little group. In fact, with the possible exception of Bishop and Neeshka, I was pretty sure no one was doing much of anything with anyone. Unlike Neverwinter, Crossroad Keep was a small community, practically a village in itself, and you can't keep many secrets in a village. And I was having a hard time picturing my companions in a surreptitious romance.

Casavir? No. Just no. Khelgar? I'd been traveling with him for quite some time and despite his occasional boasts about Ironfist manhood, I was quite certain he was saving himself for some comely dwarven lass. Sand? Well, he was terribly discreet so I couldn't be certain, but it seemed to me that he took a more patient, elven view to these things. A decade here or there didn't seem that important to him. And Elanee didn't give me the impression that she had any more experience in these things than I did, although if that bothered her, I couldn't tell.

Zhjaeve possessed the calmness of a monk and I could not even picture her burning with unfulfilled lust. Not that I wanted to. Qara seemed more interested in herself than in anyone else and all her lust seemed reserved for destruction.

Grobnar I did not want to think about.

Neeshka. Neeshka always found a way to do what she wanted to do and she never spent much time worrying about the consequences. Why hadn't I gone to _her_ in the first place? She wouldn't pour scorn on me for having perfectly normal, natural needs. Why had I dumped my highly embarrassing problems into Ammon's unreceptive ears? I stepped into the courtyard.

"Wolf?" I asked. "Where's Neeshka?" He and his squad of urchins were practically omniscient. It was creepy, if you thought about it very hard.

"She's at Deekin's shop," he said. "Several merchant caravans showed up today and she's looking at the new stuff." I waved my thanks and headed for the shop.

Deekin's shop was dim and cool and full of interesting smells.

"Hey, Jess!" Neeshka warbled cheerfully.

"Ooh, the Knight-Captain has come to my humble shop," Deekin twittered. No matter how many times I'd come into the little kobold's place, he always laid on the grateful fawning. I didn't notice it had any effect on his prices, however.

"Hey, I heard you were up late last night getting drunk with Ammon Jerro," she said, tilting her head and grinning. "What's the tale?" I just shook my head. I didn't want to know how these stories got around.

"Nothing," I muttered.

"Nothing? I've always thought there must be more going on with Ammon than he lets on," she said. "I mean, what was the guy doing with all those succubi in his private little haven? Huh? If all he wanted was muscle, why didn't he recruit vrocks or slaadi or something?"

Exactly what I had been wondering!

"There is no tale," I said. "I couldn't sleep and you know Ammon's up at all hours. He kept me company, that's all."

"Uh huh," she said skeptically. "And that explains the massive hangover? I heard you practically had to be carted off the practice ground this morning."

"That is a foul lie." I gave her my Knight-Captain frown, the one I copied from Kana. She put her hands on her hips. Finally I gave up. "It's a foul exaggeration, anyway. We drank a bottle of wine, okay? It was a lot stronger than I'm used to and I felt a little queasy this morning. That's all and I'm sorry the truth is so boring."

"Well, if you can't sleep, there are better cures than strong wine and better companions than crusty old warlocks."

I gave her a startled look and wondered if she and Ammon had been talking. Suddenly Neeshka started laughing.

"Oh, Jess, you should see your face! Is _that_ your problem? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" I asked in a quelling voice but any quest to repress Neeshka was a lost cause.

"Why didn't you tell me that you needed to get laid?"

"Neeshka!" She just laughed harder while Deekin, who was eavesdropping, gave me an increasingly puzzled look. I really, really hoped we had reached one of those cultural gulfs and he didn't know what Neeshka meant.

"Why don't you drag that scruffy ranger up to your bedchamber?" she asked between giggles. "He's always giving you the eye. I'm sure he'd have you waking up with a smile on your lips."

"Yeah, that would be great except for the chance that I'd wake up dead," I said. "Come on, Neeshka, there's something…" I spread my hands, looking for the right word. I couldn't find it. "There's something _off _about that man. Do you really think he is exactly a _safe_ option?" She shrugged, still grinning.

"Safe, no, but fun—oh, hells yes!"

"I have a job to do here," I said. "You know why I can't take those kinds of chances."

"Hmph. Well how about Casavir, then? He'd certainly be safe enough, and all that paladin goodness ought to be right down your alley. Tell him to come up to your room and give you some…private…weapons training." She waggled her eyebrows.

"You think it would be fair or right to use him like that? He's the kind of man you're supposed to fall in love with, not the kind you…you know."

Neeshka gave a condescending little laugh.

"I've seen how he looks at you. Besides, I don't think any man would object to being used that way."

I was pretty sure she was wrong about that but there was no point in arguing about it.

Neeshka looked at my face and said, "You're hopeless."

"You're probably right," I sighed. It was time for a subject change. "What have you been looking at?" There were piles of brightly colored clothes on the counter. I picked up a tunic. It was pretty but looked to be cut awfully low in the bodice. There were dresses and leggings as well, and to my astonishment, it seemed they were all of scandalous design. What were they doing here in a war camp? Who here would wear something like this?

In growing wrath, I said, "If Torio Claven ordered these sluttish outfits and charged them to the keep account, I am going to string her up by her thumbs!"

"No, no," Deekin said, alarmed. "These were brought by one of the traveling merchants on consignment. I thought the ladies of the Den might like them."

I rolled my eyes. The Den. It figured.

If Sal's bar, the Phoenix Tail, was the official tavern of the keep, then the Den was its unofficial counterpart. This area was riddled with caverns, some of which ran under the very keep itself. The tunnel that led into the keep was warded and guarded but the outlying caverns, originally a smugglers' den (hence the name) had been surreptitiously converted into a bar for those who preferred their entertainment cheap, rough and on the illicit side.

In the Den, workers (and some of the less disciplined Greycloaks, I was afraid) could gamble away their wages or seek short-term companionship of the female persuasion. For some reason (possibly the hopelessness of our cause) men outnumbered women here by about five to one and that led to certain seemingly unavoidable tensions.

The owners kept the drink prices low to draw in customers for their more profitable activities, so a lot of the patrons just came to get drunk cheaply or so Khelgar told everyone who saw him in there.

The existence of the Den was one of those secrets that everyone seemed to know. Casavir and Kana had pressured me to shut it down. Sand had suggested I tax it and with coin running through the keep like water through a mill, this was a very tempting thought. After all the arguments were done, I ended up siding with Neeshka and Ammon—best to leave it alone, since it was obviously filling a need. If we shut it down, its doppelganger would no doubt resurface somewhere new. Here we could keep an eye on the place and prevent things from getting too far out of line.

Besides Bishop had said if you make the men go too far for a wench, some of them wouldn't come back. He was probably right, damn him, and at this point, we needed every worker and every soldier we could scrape up.

"Well, okay then," I told Deekin. Neeshka held one of the shockingly brief tunics up to me.

"This is a good color for you," she said. It was the orangey-red of a lobbed fireball, right at that hot shiny moment before impact.

"No one looks good in that color except possibly a certain tiefling of my acquaintance," I said.

"Buy it for me and I'll let you borrow it tonight," she said.

"Don't tell me you came shopping and forgot your coin purse," I grumbled. "I've only heard that line a few thousand times." But I was well trained by now and my hand, totally on its own, dropped to the purse at my waist.

"You're going to need something pretty to wear tonight when I take you to the Den," Neeshka said with a sly look.

"I can't go there! Are you mad?"

"Nope. Tonight, we're going to take care of that little problem of yours. Tonight, you're going to sleep like a baby."


	3. A Good Time Is Had By Some

**Chapter 3…A Good Time Is Had By Some**

"Going to the Den is a very bad idea."

"You already said that, Jess," Neeshka said. She smirked at me. "About six times now."

"So why am I letting you talk me into this?" I asked. I was in Neeshka's bedchamber. She was laying out clothes for me to wear. I was out of my mind.

"Do we need to go over that again?" She waggled her eyebrows and wiggled her hips.

I guessed not.

It was my own fault, too. I could have said no at any time. I still could, in fact. My curiosity was going to get me in trouble and I knew it.

"People are going to recognize me, you know."

"You'll be in disguise."

"It would be pretty embarrassing if my polymorph spell suddenly wore off."

"You wizards are all alike." She snorted. "You think magic is the solution to every problem. By the time I'm through with you, your own mother wouldn't recognize you." She gave me an apologetic grimace. "Sorry, I forgot she was dead."

"It's okay. I don't remember her. But how are you going to disguise me? I am the captain of the keep, you know. People have seen me hanging around the place a time or two."

"Most folks aren't very observant. You'd be surprised how easy it is to fool them. People know you by that ratty gray robe you wear all the time and by that braid down your back. Get rid of them and you're a different person."

"My robe isn't ratty," I said indignantly. It was my favorite robe, soft and warm and comfortable like a second skin. So far I'd managed to avoid collecting any massive bloodstains or having the sleeves chewed off by zombies.

"I know you've got nicer robes. Why don't you ever wear them?"

"I like this one. Besides, I'm saving them."

"For what?" Neeshka raised her brows. "A bigger, better fight?" I shrugged.

"I might need the stronger protection later."

"Me, I say wear the good stuff now. You might get better stuff later, if you live that long, and if you die, well, there you are: Dead. Anyway, it doesn't matter for tonight," she said. "You can't wear that dingy old thing to the Den. Take it off."

I peeled out of my robe. Underneath I wore leggings and a tunic and both of them, I had to admit, were on the ratty side. Hey, they didn't show. What difference did it make? Neeshka's lip curled up.

"Off," she said and when I hesitated, she added, "Come on. The night isn't getting any younger."

I stripped down to my underclothes. At least my linens passed inspection. That was thanks to Delma, my squire-maid, who made sure that all my linens were dainty—befitting the Lady of Crossroad Keep. The lace wouldn't hold an enchantment so it served no useful purpose, but life in the keep was full of little compromises. I didn't whine about the lace (much) and Delma didn't yap about my ratty working clothes (much).

"Here," Neeshka said and tossed me a buttery-soft pair of doeskin pants. We were close enough in size that if I pulled the laces tight, they fit fine. There was a problem though.

"Neeshka, there is a big gaping hole in the back of these pants." She flicked me with the end of her tail.

"I know."

"I can't go out like this!"

"Sure you can," she said with a grin. "I do it all the time."

"I don't have a tail, you know. Someone might see my linens."

"Then take them off."

"Neeshka!" She laughed at me.

"Keep your tunic pulled down and no one will ever know."

"I'll know." She just rolled her eyes.

"Don't be a baby," she said and tossed me the flame-colored tunic. It was tight. It was cut low. It was barely long enough to cover the hole in the back of Neeshka's pants. It looked like something one of Ophala's dancers would wear at the Moonstone Mask.

"Eek," I said. If I had to dress like this, I wanted a mask to cover my embarrassment.

"That looks great on you. I might have to let you keep it after all."

"This is indecent," I said. "You can see my…bosom." Neeshka laughed.

"That's good. If the men are looking at your 'bosom', they won't be looking at your face," she said. "It's the perfect disguise. Now we need to do something with your hair."

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"Don't tell me, let me guess: your father started braiding your hair like this when you were six years old and you haven't gotten around to trying a new hairstyle."

"My hair is unruly. It has to be tied up. Besides, I can't fight when my hair is in my eyes."

"Yeah, sure, whatever. You're not fighting tonight, though, are you? We're going to have some fun. You've got nice hair but men like it loose, like this."

She brushed out my hair until it hung like a thick and shaggy brown cloak covering my shoulders.

"Unruly," she said. "That's one word for it. I bet you've broken a comb or two. Me, I like it like this but maybe you should ask Sand if he has a spell to control hair. His always looks perfect."

"That's elf blood for you," I said. "My dad spent most of his life tramping around in the swamp and yet he never had trouble with his hair either." We traded shrugs and then she attacked me with perfume and cosmetics.

"Do you want to see how you look?" she asked. She passed me a mirror. It was made of costly silvered glass and I didn't want to know where it had come from.

"I doubt it," I grumbled, but I was curious enough to take a look. "Ack!"

"You'll be fine," she said, and then she grinned, draped me in a hooded cloak and pulled me out the door.

* * *

It wasn't hard to avoid the Greycloak sentries; in fact, it was pathetically easy. Maybe that was Neeshka's doing or maybe I would have to have some stiff words with Kana in the morning. Once I got the gunk scrubbed off my face and some decent clothes on, that is.

The lookout lounging by the entrance to the Den was marginally more vigilant than my own Greycloaks, but when he saw Neeshka, he waved us inside with no questions asked. His eyes flicked to my face and lingered on my exposed bosom. It looked like Neeshka had been right.

I had to admit that I was very curious to see the Den for myself. I was a bit disappointed to see no obvious signs of depravity. The Den didn't seem so different from the little bar Simmy ran in Old Owl Well, although for some strange reason (perhaps to justify the ridiculously inflated prices) she had called her place an 'ale garden'. Ale—yes, garden—no.

Of course, the fact that the Den was inside a big cave did differentiate it from your average dive. The cave roof soared far overhead and sound echoed strangely. I wondered how many drunks had stumbled on the rough rock underfoot. The bar itself had been cobbled together from rough hewn planks—a far cry from the silky smooth and lovingly polished countertop in the Phoenix Tail up in the keep. There were stools at the counter but most of the drinkers stood around in small groups or leaned against the dry cave walls. There were few concessions to comfort—no food, no tables, no bard, and almost nowhere to sit. The place had a very temporary feel to it, like a war camp. There was no cheery fire but that meant there was no choking smoke either and the slight chill was not particularly uncomfortable.

Or it wouldn't have been if I had been wearing my nice warm robe—or any clothes that covered me adequately. As it was, I felt rather exposed fore and aft.

I followed the tiefling to the bar. The bartender smiled.

"Hi, Neeshka," he said. "I was wondering if I'd see you in here tonight. Who's your friend?"

"This is Jasmine," she said, poking me in the side with her tail, presumably so I would pay attention to my new name.

"I'm Paetr. Welcome to the Den," he said, and at his slight frown, two of the men at the bar got up and gave us their stools. At Neeshka's direction, Paetr served us a couple of ales. No coin changed hands, I noticed, although something did. I was pretty sure I wasn't supposed to notice that the bartender slipped something small to Neeshka when he handed her the mugs. It was probably a gem. Neeshka liked gems.

"I don't think I've seen you in here before, Jasmine," he said in a friendly tone. I shook my head.

"It's her first time here. A couple of caravans came in today," Neeshka said—two unrelated statements from the tiefling of deception.

"Ah, I see," he said, apparently jumping to the conclusion Neeshka had dangled before him. "Some of your fellow travelers are in the back rooms, I think."

"The back rooms?" Neeshka poked me in the side again.

"I'll show you later," she said. "Things been quiet tonight?" she asked Paetr.

"Yes, no trouble," he said. I followed his gaze to the wall to my left where a very large skeleton stood. My mouth dropped open for a moment.

"What in the Nine Hells is that?" I hopped off the stool, grabbed my mug and walked over to the skeleton. The closer I got, the stronger the power I felt coming off it. Someone had dropped a powerful enchantment.

"Hold on a moment, Je…Jasmine," Neeshka called. She hurried after me. I reached my hand up to the skull. "Don't touch it!" Neeshka cried, her voice suddenly urgent.

Red lights flared in the empty eye sockets. I could feel the summoned creature suddenly snap to attention. It startled me and I jumped, slopping ale on the ground. The skeleton stared at me and then bent down and cocked its head as if to get a closer look. I could feel the intelligence behind its fiery eyes.

"Mystra's breath," I said. "How extremely interesting!" The sudden hush in the room made me look around to see what had caused it. Avid eyes implied that something exciting was about to happen—to me.

"Who did this?" I asked Neeshka, but before she could answer, I knew. I knew who had called it and I knew who was looking through its eyes. I rose up on tiptoe and whispered to the skeleton as it continued to lean over me.

"Hello, Ammon."

Flames twinkled back at me.

Neeshka took my arm and steered me towards a dark corridor as the room behind us erupted in loud conversation. She had grabbed the arm with the mug and it was all I could do to keep from spilling the rest of my ale as she hustled me into another cavern. This was smaller than the first, or so I guessed, but it was hard to judge the size due to the maze of partition walls made of logs or saplings draped with old tapestries or carpets.

"Okay," I said, jerking my arm out of Neeshka's hold. "Why does Ammon have a skeleton here? What's going on?"

"It's the bouncer," she said. "If anyone causes trouble in the bar or tries to mess with the skeleton, it picks them up and throws them outside. It's really entertaining—you wouldn't believe how strong that skeleton is."

"Actually I would," I said. "But you didn't answer my question. Why is it here?"

"But Jess, you left us in charge."

"Huh?"

"In that big meeting, remember, you said the Den could stay but Ammon and I had to be responsible that nothing bad happened."

Did I say that? Maybe I did. I wasn't sure I had meant it though.

"Oh. So you two are keeping an eye on the place?" She nodded, happy that I understood. "Okay. I guess." I waved my arm. "What's all this?"

"These are the gaming rooms and there are also some, um, privacy rooms in the back." She leaned in close. "So if you meet someone you like, you can spend time with him here. After all, it would kind of give the game away if you brought someone back to the Knight-Captain's bedchamber, right? This place is much more discreet."

"I'm glad you've got it all figured out," I said dryly. She just grinned.

"So what would you like to do first? There's usually a card game going, or we could throw dice."

"Gamble against you? I think not," I said skeptically. "I'd just as soon hand you my coin purse now and save time." She laughed and shook her head.

"Ah, Jasmine, this place is packed with fellows who want to hand me their coin purse," she said. "It's practically my duty to pick them clean. They owe you."

"Why do you say that?" She leaned over to whisper in my ear.

"You're paying the workers three times the going rate, Jess. These guys don't know what to do with all the coin in their pockets. The least they can do is buy you a drink or two, or take a few losses at the dice table. Don't you think?" With a gleeful look, she added, "I don't even have to pay the house a percentage on my winnings."

I just shook my head. Sometime I'd have to let Sand know that we had found a way to tax the Den after all.

"I'm not interested in gambling," I said. "Let's just go get another drink. I spilled most of this one."

I made sure we walked past the skeleton bouncer on the way back to the bar. Its eerie eyes tracked me as I passed it and I gave it a little finger wave. When we reached the bar, we handed Paetr our mugs for a refill. One of the guys at the bar politely offered Neeshka his stool. The fellow next to him did not, despite the significant look Paetr gave him.

"Thudgar, give the lady your seat," the bartender said. Thudgar was a big fellow, a stoneworker, judging by the dust on his clothes and in his beard. It looked like he had come straight from the work site without taking time to attend to his personal grooming. Thudgar looked me up and down, but apparently his eyes were too tired to make it much higher than my cleavage.

"Sure," he said and before I knew what he had in mind, he scooped me up and set me on his lap. Thudgar smelled like sweat, stone, and ale. He put one arm around my waist to hold me in place while his free hand—a huge, calloused and very dirty hand—closed around my thigh.

"Ack," I said.

"Hi, sweetheart," he replied. His beard tickled my shoulder as he looked straight down my tunic. "Can I buy you a drink? Anything you like. Want to get married?"

"Mainly I'd like you to put me down," I said. I tried to wiggle free without any notable success. He was a big, big fellow. "Immediately."

"How about a kiss then?" If I hadn't already guessed, the glazed look in his eyes told me Thudgar was already well along the path of drunkenness. I leaned back, trying to avoid his face looming towards mine. He leaned forward. I was a bit reluctant to cast a spell in front of everyone in the bar but I figured no one would notice if I gave him a quick shock. I whispered the words but no one could hear them over the loud thudding noise behind us. Thudgar shuddered from the jolt I gave him and let me go. Off balance, I fell backwards and landed hard on my rear. Thudgar flew high in the air.

He levitated? My spell hadn't done that.

Thudgar wasn't flying, he was propelled. Ammon's skeleton lifted him over its head as if the man weighed no more than a feather. It stomped towards the entrance, its heavy tread the loudest noise in the suddenly quiet bar. There was a short pause and then the skeleton returned alone and reclaimed its position against the wall. It turned to me and lifted its hand in a lazy salute. The silence lasted a moment longer and then there was a ragged cheer.

Neeshka was right. It was certainly entertaining.

"Sorry about that," Paetr said, passing me a fresh mug and giving Neeshka a nervous glance. I could tell he really didn't want to get in trouble with her. There was something terribly amusing about the thought that Neeshka was here as the keeper of the peace.

"No problem," I said, perching on Thudgar's vacated stool. Somehow I doubted he would be back to claim it. "He had too much ale." I'd spent enough time in my uncle's bar, the Sunken Flagon, to not be overly upset by some drunk playing the fool. I smiled, Neeshka smiled, and finally Paetr smiled. Everyone was happy.

Thudgar's dramatic exit seemed to break the ice, and a steady stream of fellows crowded around the bar to buy us drinks and chat about nothing in particular. Everyone seemed to know Neeshka. I smiled and drank and wondered what in the hells I thought I was doing here. I wasn't going to saunter off to one of the back rooms with some guy I'd just met. Most of them seemed nice enough but this just wasn't doing it for me. I'd seen the Den, my curiosity was satisfied; it was time to go. Maybe Sand could brew me a sleeping potion.

So the raspy voice in my ear came as something of a relief.

"You need to come with me, Jess," Ammon said. "Now."


	4. Something Unexpected

**Chapter 4…Something Unexpected**

"Are we under attack?" I asked, as Ammon Jerro hustled me not towards the entrance but towards the back part of the Den. We slipped quietly through the maze of temporary walls and the sounds I heard from the private rooms—the moans, the cries, the grunts—brought a flush to my cheeks. Actually, I already had a flush to my cheeks. I might have had just a tad too much to drink.

No one spoke to us or hindered us in any way. I wondered if Ammon had used an invocation to make us invisible or if it was merely his grim expression that cleared our path.

"I am not certain," he said. I stopped and blinked at him. That didn't sound like the right answer. Generally one knew when one was being attacked. I decided to try rephrasing the question.

"Are we under attack—yes or no?"

"There is no shadow reaver pounding at the front gate, if that is what you mean," he said, casting me a sarcastic look. "The danger—if any—is more subtle than that."

I didn't like the sound of that. I wasn't good at subtlety at the best of times and I was feeling particularly unsubtle at the moment.

"So you don't know if we are under attack or not."

Ammon frowned down at me. When he frowned, his tattoos got a little brighter. I'd never noticed that before.

"Jess, are you drunk?" I blinked again and tried to calculate the answer. Quite a few fellows had bought me drinks. It would have been rude to send them back. Good manners were important to a knight, I'd been told by Nevalle, repeatedly.

"I am not certain," I said. He shook his head at me, lips pursed in exasperation.

"Come with me and keep silent."

Ammon pulled a corner of one of the partitions to slide it away from the cavern wall and motioned for me to step through the gap. The partition had covered a tunnel that stretched into darkness. Ammon held my arm to keep me from stumbling—he seemed to have no trouble seeing—but after a while, just as I felt I had had quite enough of stubbing my toes in the cool velvety darkness—he told me I could cast a light.

One cave looks much like another, I suppose, but I was pretty sure I knew where we were. This was the underground passage to the keep.

"Why are we going this way?" I asked. The way these tunnels twisted and turned made this a long path back.

"It's more convenient." Convenient for what, I wondered, but I didn't ask.

"Thanks for rescuing me from that Thudgar fellow in the bar, by the way," I said, after we had ghosted along in the dark long enough to be out of earshot of anyone back in the Den.

"I have found that if I eject one drunk early in the evening, there is less trouble later," was his reply. So much for chivalry, not that I expected such from Ammon Jerro.

"I would guess so," I said. It hadn't looked like much fun for Thudgar, as he had shrieked and thrashed about in the skeleton's iron hold and it had certainly made an impression on the rest of the crowd. "I hadn't realized you and Neeshka were watching over the Den."

"You assigned us that task, did you not?" I decided not to tell him that I had forgotten all about it.

"Yes, but I'm not used to people just handling things like that." I looked at Ammon. He raised one shaggy brow. "You know, quietly and efficiently." He snorted. "Usually there are more meetings and discussions and questions." I sighed a little.

"Most of the others seek your attention and your approval."

"And you do not."

He raised a brow again. It wasn't a question and he didn't dignify it with an answer.

There was no sentry posted at the underground entrance to the keep, for it had been decided that guards would make the secret escape route conspicuous, which was not our goal. Instead, Vale and some of his Cloaktower mages had cast complex and deadly wards on the door, wards which Ammon wafted us through as if they did not exist.

"Isn't this something of a security problem?" I asked.

"That I can pass the wards? Only if you think I will betray you." I paused for a moment. Something in his tone carried more than his usual irony. Our eyes met. "Do you think I will?" His strange golden eyes, sign of the otherworldly blood that fueled his power, bored into mine. I knew he was a bad man. He was a very bad man. But I also knew that our paths ran together.

"No," I said. "You won't betray me." Certainly not before the King of Shadows was destroyed, and afterwards—well, there probably wasn't going to _be_ an afterwards. Not for me anyway. When the shard of the silver sword had pierced me as a babe, only a miracle had allowed me to survive. It seemed logical that one day—when the sword was restored and used as intended—the balance would be restored.

The look Ammon gave me made me wonder if he had picked that thought out of my head. His eyes were uncomfortably acute.

"Hmm. You're not a complete idiot, even if you are wearing the tiefling's clothes for some reason."

I pulled the tunic down in the back, feeling horribly self conscious, and then I had to hustle to keep up with Ammon.

"Where are we going?"

"There is something I want to show you in your bedchamber."

That sounded rather ominous—or something. I found I had stopped again and I had to hurry to keep up with his long-legged stride.

We walked past the empty summoning circle and up the stairs from the basement. I finally realized that what was convenient about this way into the keep was that we passed no Greycloaks. Walking quietly, we made it to my bedroom without being seen. Not that we were doing anything wrong, but I had left Neeshka's cloak at the Den and I didn't particularly want to be caught walking around dressed like a tavern dancer with a hole in the back of her pants.

Ammon shut the door behind me and then dropped the bar to lock it. I gave him an enquiring look.

"Do you sense anything?" he asked.

"Like what?" The intensity of his gaze was making me rather nervous. I was alone in my bedchamber with Ammon Jerro and he had just barred the door. Nervousness seemed the appropriate response.

He moved to the side of my bed and beckoned for me to approach.

"Give me your hand," he said. I laid my hand in his. His fingers were very warm or perhaps mine were cold. No, it was him. Ammon was always warm, like there was a fire inside him. He dragged my hand along the back of the headboard. He was taller than me and as he pulled my hand, he stretched me out so that I was leaning far off balance. I brushed against his thighs and chest.

"Close your eyes. Use your arcane senses," he said. "What do you feel?"

I felt the heat of Ammon's body along my back. I felt awkward, embarrassed—and then I felt something else. I snatched my fingers back and jerked away from Ammon.

"What in the Nine Hells is that?" I had felt power under my fingers, a repulsively cold and greasy power. I felt like I had unexpectedly touched a worm or some other slimy creature that belonged in darkness, under the ground. I wiped my fingers on my pants.

"Let's take a look," Ammon said, and then he helped me shove the bed farther away from the wall. The bed was quite heavy but Ammon was very strong and I was no weakling. I called a light and squeezed into the gap between the bed and the wall. There was a symbol scratched into the wood behind my headboard. Ammon pressed in beside me to look at it. I brought my hand closer and the power from the glyph chilled me. It made me feel a little sick to think I'd been sleeping next to this small but potent sink of wrongness.

"What does it do?" I asked. "And how did you know it was here?"

"I sensed it when I searched your room earlier this evening," Ammon said.

Ammon had been searching my room? I was sure that my entire face was a confused question.

If Neeshka had been searching my room, I would have checked to see that my coin purse was safe. If it had been Bishop—or Grobnar—I would have checked to see that my underwear drawer was untouched. Sand would have come looking for one of his books. Casavir would have come looking for me and would have stood in the corridor while calling my name, too polite to enter without permission. I couldn't imagine what Ammon had been doing in my room and I said so.

"I was looking for this," he said, staring at the symbol. "Or something similar." He moved so that I could come out from behind the bed. "It occurred to me that these erotic dreams that have been plaguing you might not have a natural cause. They don't." His bushy eyebrows drew down in a frown. "You asked me to send you an incubus. Someone has sent you a succubus."

"But…I have only dreamed about men."

"A succubus can assume any form that tempts you, male or female."

"Who would do this to me?"

"I don't know."

"But you think this is some form of an attack?"

"Perhaps. I cannot tell how long this glyph has been here. It could have been here for decades, and it is sheer coincidence that you have activated the spell by sleeping in this particular bed. Or it may have been placed here by Black Garius or one of his minions during the time he had control of this keep."

"Why would anyone bind a succubus to a piece of furniture?"

Ammon raised both brows and gave me an incredulous look. Oh. Succubus—bed—got it.

"Forget I asked," I said, feeling like an idiot. "So this could have been someone's idea of, um, personal amusement. Or it could be some kind of arcane booby-trap. Can the succubus injure me? _Has_ it injured me?" I did feel stupider than usual but perhaps that was due to the ale.

"Besides disturbing your sleep, which can affect your health and your judgment," and at that, he gave my clothes a snide look, "She can drain your will and your life force itself. I do not sense this has happened, however. I suspect your innocence has protected you from her attacks."

"I don't understand." He gave me another of his ironic smiles, more of a twitch of the lips than a true smile.

"Once you have experienced passion, it is much easier for a succubus to seduce you. She weaves together your memories and the darkest desires of your heart. When those desires are unformed, unrealized, then she has less to work with."

"Oh."

"The succubus is not bound to your bed but the glyph does serve as a portal of sorts to allow her entry when she chooses."

"So all we need to do is destroy the glyph and everything will be okay." Ammon gave me a considering look.

"I thought you might prefer to trap her and interrogate her first. We may discover who is responsible. Would it not be better to learn if this glyph is here by accident or design?"

"You know how to trap her?"

"Certainly." His look made me feel a bit foolish. He had controlled a whole army of demons so catching one little succubus wasn't likely to tax his capabilities.

"What do I need to do?"

It sounded simple enough. All I had to do was go to sleep. Ammon would conceal himself in my room, and when the succubus arrived, he would spring his trap. Then he would wake me up and we would question her. He seemed to have no doubt that she could be induced to answer our questions. I hoped I would not have to witness anything too nefarious.

I decided to go to bed in Neeshka's clothes, for there was no way I wanted Ammon (or any of my male companions) to see one of the ridiculous nightgowns Delma had chosen for me. Besides I couldn't see interrogating some demon while foaming with ribbons and lace like a fancy Festival doll.

"Will you be able to sleep?" Ammon asked. "If you scribe a sleep spell, I can cast it on you."

"I have a wand somewhere," I said, waving a hand at one of my dressers. In fact I had many wands, crafted under Sand's careful direction. At one time they had been neatly boxed and labeled but I was afraid that the chaos of my life had had its inevitable effect on Sand's careful organization.

"But I think I can sleep without it," I added. Months of standing rotating watches during our travels had trained me to fall asleep and awaken quickly. It is a little like meditation—I let my thoughts go quiet, I let my body go limp and sleep soon follows.

Ammon did his disappearing trick. I wished I could have left a lamp burning. The moon wasn't up yet and the room was very dark. I supposed it didn't really matter but it did feel strange to be alone in the dark with a man I didn't know well, a man bound to me by a sword that he had broken and that I was apparently destined to mend.

I drifted into sleep.

The mattress sagged under someone's weight. I rolled over and looked up into Ammon's face. The light from his tattoos made his eyes seem to glow brightly in the dark room. I blinked and murmured something incoherent. It didn't feel like I had gotten any sleep at all.

"I've never seen your hair loose like this," he said. He buried one hand in a thick mass of dense wavy chaos. I could feel my own curls brush soft and silky along the side of my neck.

"Not practical," I said groggily. Why was Ammon Jerro playing with my hair? Weren't we here for some other purpose?

"Ah," he said. "There is a time for practicality." The mattress dipped again and I found Ammon laying full length beside me in the bed. The covers had been pulled back, leaving me exposed to a cool draft. His hand moved from my hair to my cheek and slowly began to trace a line down my neck to my shoulder. "And then there is a time for more…sensual pursuits."

Sensual pursuits? I had to admit that I liked the sound of that. There hadn't exactly been an over-abundance of sensual pursuits in my life so far. His chilly fingers ran along my collar bone and then began to dip along the low-cut line of Neeshka's tunic. His hands were so cold that a shiver ran through me, half anticipation and half genuine chill.

Ammon's hands were never cold.

I had to swallow twice before I could speak.

"You," I whispered. "You are not Ammon Jerro." His lips nuzzled my neck below my ear. I could feel the tickle of his beard. If this form was an illusion, it felt complete in every detail except that his breath was unnaturally cool against my skin. "You are the succubus."

"I can give you what you want," Ammon said. I felt his lips on my jaw. His hand turned my head so he could kiss my lips. Before he could do so, I put my hand up into his face and shoved. He fell off the edge of the bed.

"I doubt that," I said. I sat up. The real Ammon stepped out of the shadows that cloaked him. He spoke the words of an invocation and I felt his power not just in words against my ears but as a kind of low pitched vibration against my skin. The Ammon sprawled on the floor gave the real Ammon a look of utter hatred. I slid out of the bed and walked carefully around the imposter but he remained frozen in place. I stood beside Ammon, who looked down at his double.

"Well," he said at last, his eyes flicking towards me. "That was rather unexpected."


	5. Suspicion

**Chapter 5…Suspicion**

"Unexpected? Surely not, my dear warlock," the false Ammon said smoothly. I had cast a light spell but even under its harsh glare the succubus' disguise still looked perfect. "Could you possibly be unaware that your captain finds you attractive? Even your pure little knight is conscious of how very…beguiling you can be when you choose." He twisted to look up at me and there was heat in his eyes. "Your warlock's prowess and endurance are something of a legend amongst my sisters. There are many interesting and inventive ways to bargain with demons, you know. Ah, the tales I could tell..."

The true Ammon growled out something angry and guttural in what I assumed was Abyssal, a language I did not speak.

"Why certainly," the false Ammon replied. There was a gust of cold foul air that made me blink and when I opened my eyes the succubus had changed shape. Now she looked like me, I supposed. The unruly cloud of dark hair was familiar but I didn't think my lips were quite so full or red, nor was my skin so creamy and smooth. She must have plucked the ridiculous lacy nightgown straight from my memory but I had never worn it with the front ties undone. The expanse of cleavage thus exposed was surely exaggerated. (I looked down to check. Yep. She was taking liberties with my shape, the little hussy.)

"Does this form please you more?" she asked Ammon, in a breathy tone that I didn't think sounded like me at all. His only reply was a frown. "May I stand?" she asked. "Or do you prefer me at your feet?" She gave a suggestive little laugh.

"Stand," he said roughly. She slowly came to her feet with a lot of unnecessary stretching, arching and posing.

"So, Ammon, how can I serve you?" she purred.

"I take it you know this demon," I said. She answered for him.

"Oh, Ammon and I go way back," she said slyly. "Don't we, darling?"

"Who sent you here, Hatsou?" he asked. The succubus opened her eyes very wide.

"Why, darling, surely it was you who scratched my sign on your knight's bed? I've been wondering what exactly you hoped for me to accomplish here, although given her…pristine state, I have a few thoughts." Her voice dropped seductively. "Perhaps you would like to give me your instructions now?" She took a step towards him and her voice dropped yet lower. "Or would you prefer to do so in private?"

"I did not scribe that glyph," Ammon ground out.

"Come now, Ammon Jerro, who else would have the knowledge to do so?" Her mouth curled into an evil parody of a smile. Ammon's eyes flared with rage then he growled a few words and hit her 

with the full strength of his eldritch blast. The air sizzled and she let out a terrible scream. It looked like Qara was not the only redhead in the keep subject to fits of temper. I ran and grabbed his arm. He shook me loose.

"Get out of the way," he said. "I will force the truth out of her."

It didn't seem like the ideal time to start a discussion on the ethics of torture, so I just said, "This room is not soundproof. Since neither one of us had the foresight to cast a silence spell, I expect we will have Greycloaks at the door, oh, right about now." He gave me a look of angry consternation which intensified when we heard boots thudding along the corridor.

"Get rid of her," I hissed. Someone tried to open the door and found it barred.

"The door is locked," I heard the guard holler and then he banged on the door. "Knight-Captain! Are you safe?"

I looked back and when I saw that Ammon was busy banishing the succubus, I went to the door and lifted the bar. Two Greycloaks practically tumbled inside. They looked at me, then looked at Ammon, then looked back at me, taking in the strange way I was dressed with evident surprise. Here was plenty of grist for the rumor mill, I realized ruefully. It was a good thing they hadn't seen the succubus. Now _that_ would make a juicy story.

"It's okay," I said and then added the first excuse that popped into my head. "I saw a spider and it startled me. That's all. I apologize for disturbing you."

"A spider, Knight-Captain?" the first Greycloak asked. I could almost remember his name. It started with a J. Jasper? Jannin? Something like that.

"It was a really big spider," I said. I held out my hands in a vague measurement. "Um, someone might want to go check and see if Kistrel has hidden an egg sac somewhere, before the keep is overrun." The two Greycloaks exchanged nervous looks.

"Since we are on duty I, um, will pass that suggestion on to Sergeant Kana in the morning," Jasper or Jannin said. I tried not to roll my eyes.

Almost all the guards seemed to get along with Elanee's badger even though it was not very friendly and had snapped at most of us—even Grobnar. It had actually bitten Qara once and gods, what a fuss that had caused. Bishop's wolf was equally well regarded. He tended to stick to the woods around the keep and caused no problems. In fact, the farmers credited him for chasing off other predators. I'd often seen the soldiers petting and feeding Sand's cat and Qara's ferret but for some reason Kistrel, the giant spider who had befriended me, was not a favorite in the barracks. In fact, she was viewed with disgust. For that matter, I never once caught the Greycloaks sneaking treats to their very own Knight-Captain's beetle familiar.

They were all a bunch of mammal bigots.

I thought I'd successfully freed myself from my 'protectors' when I heard a deep voice behind them. My heart sank.

"Jonnus? Coro? Is there a problem?"

Trust Casavir to know everyone's names.

"No, Casavir, the lady—ahem—the Knight-Captain was startled by a spider. That's all."

"Very well, then," Casavir said. "You may return to your posts." And then he pushed the door wider and looked at me. His eyes went from me to Ammon and then to the unmade bed. His face hardened. Mine flushed.

"I heard a scream. Jess, may I have a word with you?"

"Come in and shut the door," Ammon said curtly, not bothering to seek my permission. Casavir looked to me before he did so, however, which I appreciated.

The two men were a definite study in contrasts. Ammon was wily as a fox, with hard eyes and no tolerance for fools or incompetence of any sort. Casavir, despite his war-honed body and his scarred hands, had the soul of a poet.

And yet in some strange way they were alike as well. Both of them had suffered in their desire to protect the innocent. Casavir had ended up deserting Neverwinter's service when he felt that Nasher's politics got in the way of his true duty. Ammon had joined Neverwinter's court in the hopes of rallying a defense against the King of Shadows—until their ridicule and indifference drove him to seek darker allies. His theft of the Sword of Gith and attack on the King of Shadows, like Casavir's single-handed assault upon the orc tribes, seemed an insanely heroic form of suicide.

They were both mad. Given our task, that was not such a bad thing.

Casavir eyed Ammon uneasily. I knew he loathed Ammon as much as he allowed himself to loathe any man. He certainly avoided him as much as possible. He hated the fact that, due to the debacle of the Ritual of Purification, Ammon's presence was required to defeat the King of Shadows. Although I think he actually considered Ammon more honorable or perhaps simply more predictable than Bishop, I sensed that he held some slight strands of compassion for Bishop where he felt none for Ammon. Sometimes I wondered if it was the very similarities between Casavir and Ammon that made him feel such antipathy. I wondered if Casavir feared that he himself, in the same situation, could have ended up making the same terrible choices.

"What has happened?" Casavir asked. He gave Ammon a pointed look, but whether it was an accusation or an invitation to leave, I wasn't sure. Both, perhaps. Casavir, of course, knew me too well to buy the spider story. I looked at Ammon, unsure how much he wanted to share but the warlock motioned for Casavir to approach the bed, still pulled away from the wall.

"What do you make of that?" he asked the paladin, pointing to the glyph behind the headboard. Casavir took a close look and then pulled away with an expression of extreme distaste. I noticed he did not touch the symbol. I wished I hadn't. My fingertips still felt slimy.

"This is demonic," he said. "Who scribed this here?"

"That is what we were trying to find out when we were interrupted," Ammon said coolly. "The scream you heard was the succubus who was summoned by this glyph."

"A succubus has been called to the Knight-Captain's bed?" He gave me a worried look.

"I'm okay," I said. "I've been having dreams, but that's all. She didn't harm me." I turned to Ammon. "Can we get rid of this thing now? I'd rather not have to bunk down with Elanee or Neeshka tonight."

"I didn't finish questioning Hatsou," he said.

"Questioning the succubus?" Casavir asked, and the look of distaste was back.

"You could help with that," Ammon told him. "When I summon her, can you compel her to speak the truth?"

"That is not so easy, particularly with a demon," Casavir said. "They are accustomed to speaking evasively. Besides…" Ammon interrupted.

"Even if you cannot compel the truth, you can still detect it, can you not? That could be useful."

"We are not doing this," I said. Asking Casavir to help interrogate some succubus, even if he agreed to it (which seemed unlikely) was just wrong. Even exposing him to her presence seemed wrong. Ammon might not care—and in fact I was sure he didn't—but I clearly remembered the distress the paladin had felt amongst the demons in the Haven.

"Do we really need to hear any more of her lies?" I asked. I was getting tired and I was ready for these men to get out of my room so I could get out of Neeshka's clothes. "Despite what Hatsou said, I know you didn't do this," I told Ammon.

"The succubus claimed that Jerro called her here?" Casavir asked in growing suspicion. I held up my hand.

"She was lying," I said. "Ammon is not that stupid." Ammon's lips twitched in amusement at that heartfelt tribute. "And I really don't think this was some souvenir from Black Garius' stay. She knew you, Ammon. I think this little plot or whatever it is was aimed at you, not me. You might want to check that there aren't any glyphs inscribed on _your_ bed."

"I would sense it if there was," he said.

"Well, maybe that is why I was targeted," I said. "I think one of your old demonic girlfriends is mad at you. Maybe she wants to get me mad at you too." I started to grin at Ammon's scornful look but I caught a glance of Casavir's expression. Oh dear. "So please," I said. "Destroy the glyph."

"Your wish is my command, Knight-Captain," Ammon said with a mocking half-bow and then he brushed his fingers across the glyph. There was a thread of smoke and a whiff of something dead and rotten. I leaned over his shoulder to look. All that remained was a scorched mark.

"Thanks," I said and we shoved the bed back into place. I gave the men an expectant look which they missed because they were busy glaring at each other. "Thanks," I said with more emphasis. "Good evening."

They didn't move.

"My lady," Casavir said. "May I have a word in private?" Ammon, looking sardonic, sat down in one of my comfortable chairs by the fireplace and stretched his legs out. The fire had long since burned down to embers but his position was plain: he wasn't leaving yet. I sighed and pulled Casavir out into the corridor. It was very quiet and the Greycloaks were out of earshot.

"What is it, Casavir?"

"You seem convinced that Ammon is not responsible for this attack on your…person," he said.

"I am certain. He alerted me to it. Besides, why would he do such a thing?"

"He is a man of few scruples."

"Do you really think he would try to, what, corrupt me, for no reason? I'm the Shard Bearer, Casavir, and he seems to believe Zhjaeve when she says I am the one who must repair and wield Gith's sword. You know how he feels about the King of Shadows. He would not jeopardize me out of maliciousness."

"Pardon my bluntness but perhaps he intends to seduce you."

"Well, I haven't seen any sign of that," I said with mild exasperation. Signs of scorn and sarcasm, yes—seduction, no. "It seems like most men would try the normal methods first—you know, flowers, candy and sweet words." Or strong drink. Hey, wait a moment, he had got me drunk. Still, nothing had happened so that didn't count. Hells, _Khelgar_ had gotten me drunk, and on more than one occasion too.

"Jerro isn't 'most men' and he is accustomed to using demons to do his bidding."

"Casavir," I said. I laid my hand on his arm. "I believe the succubus was here to sow dissent and suspicion amongst us, particularly against Ammon. Please don't let her succeed in her goals."

"I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'll be careful," I said and I patted his arm. "Good night." He gave me a sad look and then he left. So now I just had to rid myself of the warlock.

I left the door wide open as a gentle hint and walked over to Ammon. The stone floor was cold under my bare feet.

"Did you hear any of that?" I asked with sudden suspicion at his bland look.

"I didn't need to hear him," he said. "The paladin is predictable to a fault."

"He is strong and reliable and he cares what happens to me. I don't see that as a fault."

"I know."

"I'm tired, Ammon. What do you want?"

"What do _you_ want?" He was still sprawled in my favorite chair, the picture of total relaxation, except for his sharp foxy eyes.

"I'm not really in the mood for trick questions. I want to go to bed."

"Alone?"

I felt the heat rise to my face.

"The glyph is gone," I said. "I don't need any protection tonight."

"I wasn't offering to protect you." He raised one brow.

Oh. Oh hells.

I remembered the feel of the succubus' cold hands on my skin and I wondered how it would feel if Ammon's warm hands touched me where she had. I couldn't have spoken if the room had suddenly burst into flames (it felt like it had) and that was good because I had absolutely no idea of what I would or should say. Lazily, he stood. He put his hand under my chin and stared down at me for a moment.

"Never mind," he said. "I can see the answer on your face."

I could have stopped him with a word but nothing came. He walked to the door. With his hand on the latch, he turned and gave me one of his secretive smiles.

"Sleep well, Jess."

So of course I hardly slept at all and this time I had no succubus to blame.

I was such a fool.


	6. Luskan Bait

_Author's Note: There are no succubi, incubi or demons of any sort in this chapter…sorry! A Knight-Captain's life is not always full of excitement…_

**Chapter 6…Luskan Bait**

I was up bright and early the next morning. Well, early anyway. My foul mood became fouler when I was forced to wear one of my new tunics, due to the fact that my favorite practice clothes were still in Neeshka's bedchamber.

I went looking for my robe after the morning briefing, during which Kana presented me with a list of candidates for the 'giant egg sac reconnaissance team' and I, with a straight face, suggested it might be best to use our resident expert—in other words, give the bogus task to the druid. (I'd have to make my apologies to Elanee later.) Neeshka was still in her nightshirt, drinking watered ale for breakfast.

"Jess, I'm terribly sorry," she said, suspiciously bright-eyed. "Your ratty old robe met with a sad accident and was carried off by the maid. She said she needed more cleaning rags."

"That's not funny!"

"Your face is," she said, but just then I noticed a corner of my robe poking out from under her bed. I snatched it, shook out some of the wrinkles and pulled it over my head.

"Back in hiding," Neeshka said. "And I see you've got that hair of yours tamed back down as well. Too bad."

"I'm not hiding," I said. "I'm comfortable and…and practical." I had a sudden image of the succubus leaning over me, his—well, _her_ hand buried in my hair. I swallowed. Neeshka grinned.

"But those new clothes worked a treat last night, didn't they?" Her tail twitched in amusement. "I've gotta say, you certainly surprised me though, Jess. You really, really surprised me."

"What are you talking about?" I asked with a sinking feeling.

"You and Ammon, of course. Who'd have thought? He might be older than dirt but there's still plenty of fire in him, I can tell. I really like a man who can make a girl scream—and on your first date, too. Wow. Way to go, Jess."

I just shook my head, no doubt crimson with embarrassment.

"It wasn't like that and _please_ don't go around saying…"

"Oh, I won't say a word," she said. "You know me, Discreet is my middle name."

Actually, I was pretty sure it was Garrulous.

"But tell me, Jess, is it true what they say?"

"I doubt it."

"No, really, I want to know. They say once you sleep with a warlock, you're ruined for all other men. It sounds great but I was always a little scared to find out. You know? Because there are lots of lovely men around but how often do you run into a warlock?"

"Honestly, I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Oh, yeah, that's right, you don't know. You're a virgin. Well, you _were_. Now I guess you're ruined for all other men. Too bad." And she snickered. I gave up and left, only to be cornered by Zhjaeve in the corridor.

"This is for you," she said, handing me a folded square of parchment.

"What is it?" I asked, unfolding it to read a list of ingredients written in the cleric's elegant hand.

"It is a receipt for a reliable contraceptive potion." She patted my back until I quit coughing. I scanned the list again, noting that most of the ingredients looked readily available. I handed it back.

"I don't need this, Zhjaeve."

I was pretty sure she smiled behind her veil. She quietly refolded the list and put it in my pocket.

"Know that it is best to be prepared."

I was hoping my day wouldn't worsen but the look Bishop gave me when I met him in the practice yard was a warning of more to come. Obviously he had heard the rumors. Unfortunately it was my day to spar with him. He spoke not one word but his angry eyes and compressed lips spoke volumes. I honestly thought a time or two that he was going to try to kill me with his blunt wooden blades. Although it was easily the best workout I'd ever had in my entire life, it was more than a tad too realistic for my taste. Afterwards I limped back to Zhjaeve for healing and when she was done, she slipped a small vial in my pocket. I'd never seen the githzerai wink before. It was…odd.

I changed out of my sweat-soaked clothes and bathed briefly before my session with Sand to avoid collecting any more caustic 'unwashed tunic' remarks. He worked me until my brain turned into a sticky puddle. I was sure he had heard the rumor about last evening's events (since he heard everything) but he said nothing, for which I was profoundly grateful.

Speaking of profound gratitude, I hadn't seen Ammon all day. That was not unusual—I rarely knew what he was up to—and at first I was glad to be spared any potential embarrassment. Not that we had done anything to be embarrassed about, of course. Still, people seemed to _think_ that we had and they would likely be watching us for any reaction. As if I wouldn't be feeling self conscious enough about what had—well, what hadn't—happened. But as the day dragged on, I wished we would just run into each other and get it over with.

In fact, I was thinking it might be a good idea for me to head down into the basement and check on Kistrel. I ought to make sure that no one was bothering her due to that stupid tale I made up about an egg sac. The fact that Ammon's work room was also in the basement (since he was one of the few people capable of actually ignoring Grobnar) was a coincidence of course.

I took a deep breath and went down the steps.

"Oh, are you looking for Sir Ammon?" Grobnar asked cheerfully, looking up from his workbench, where he was tinkering with something that looked suspiciously like a blast globe. (I'd only told him a hundred times: no explosives inside the keep.) Grobnar was always cheerful. In a keep where angst, irritability, and just plain bad manners sometimes seemed to rule, cheerfulness wasn't a bad thing.

Of course, it wasn't exactly a _good_ thing either.

"He went out on patrol with some of the Greycloaks early this morning," Grobnar said. He grinned like this was excellent news. I wasn't sure what kind of news it was, actually. Ammon was out with the Greycloaks? On patrol? That just seemed so _odd_. Unless, of course, he was trying to avoid me, in which case…it was still odd. I just couldn't imagine him laboring under any sort of awkwardness or, for that matter, showing much in the way of delicate concern for my own feelings.

When I finally escaped Grobnar and returned to the main hall, Kana strode towards me with a nervous looking fellow at her elbow. He seemed vaguely familiar.

"Knight-Captain, this man insists upon speaking to you," she said crisply. He gave me a low bow.

"My name is Khralver Irlingstar," he said, in a Luskan accent that immediately made my hackles rise. "I am the assistant to the Luskan ambassador, Sydney Natale." Ah, so that was where I had seen him, at Lord Nasher's court. I gave an inward sigh and hoped my distaste did not show on my face.

"What can I do for you, Khralver?" I asked politely.

"Oh, no, I, I mean we have not come to you for aid," he stammered. "We come to _offer_ assistance."

"Luskan offers aid to Crossroad Keep?" I asked with mild incredulity.

"Yes indeed. We offer aid to you and, um, Neverwinter as recompense of a sort for the actions of those terrible criminals, Torio Claven and Lorne Starling," he said. "Not that we have any responsibility for them, of course." He coughed into his sleeve. "My mistress—the Luskan ambassador—has discovered how to destroy the shadow reavers!"

"You're kidding," I said. "That's great! How?"

"Well, I don't know." At my skeptical look, he started talking faster. "She has uncovered a scroll in the libraries of the Host…of Luskan that she believes holds the key to a weakness in the shadow reavers."

"I'd like to take a look at it," I said, trying to hide my interest.

"The scroll is in the safe-keeping of the ambassador," he said. "She has asked me to arrange a meeting to show it to you. We understand that you have a visitor from the planes here in the keep."

I stiffened. How in the Nine Hells had Sydney Natale found out about the succubus? Damn those spying Luskans!

"The ambassador asks that you be accompanied by the person known as…um…" He paused and shamefacedly passed me a slip of paper. I gave him a hard stare and then glanced at the paper.

"Oh," I said, relieved. "You mean Zhjaeve." He wasn't the only one unsure how to pronounce her name.

"Yes," he said, with a nervous smile. "The githzerai woman. Also Sydney asks that your companion Qara accompany you as well."

"Why does she wish to see Zhjaeve and Qara?" I asked suspiciously.

"Well, you see, ah, the thing is that we cannot actually, um, read the scroll in question," he said. "The ambassador believes that the combined talents of herself, the sorcerer and the githzerai may be required to decipher the scroll. And of course, you as well—you are known to be highly skilled in the arcane arts, Knight-Captain." I ignored that ridiculous attempt at flattery. By the standards of the Arcane Brotherhood, my wizardly skills couldn't count for much.

"If Sydney can't read it, how does she know it will be of any use?" I asked.

"I—well, I don't know for sure. I believe she can translate part of it. You will have to ask her."

"Very well," I said. "She may come to the keep and we will meet with her."

"I have been instructed to bring you to meet her."

"Where?" I asked, my brows drawing down. There was no other keep or inn any closer than Highcliff. Surely she wasn't proposing we meet in Neverwinter? Or worse, Luskan? Didn't she know I was busy?

"Nearby," Khralver said nervously.

"Tell her to meet me here," I said. "I have a conference room." I had a very nice conference room, in fact, recently restored and scarcely used at all. I turned away. He clutched my arm, but then released me at Kana's savage look.

"I must insist," he began. I raised both brows in the 'I am the Captain' look I'd been practicing. It wasn't effective on my own companions but it worked pretty well on him—for a moment there I thought Khralver was going to burst into tears. "I misspoke myself! Please, you must listen. The ambassador does not wish to enter Crossroad Keep. She is being watched and she doesn't want the Hosttower to know what she has discovered. She has set up a campsite nearby. It is perfectly safe. Really!"

Yeah, sure it was.

"It's not far," he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "I can lead you there. Sydney is most insistent…most desirous of proving her service to Neverwinter. Please, you must come."

I sighed.

"Wait here," I said. "I will confer with my companions and give you an answer shortly."

I had Zhjaeve, Qara, Sand and (reluctantly) Torio Claven, our resident expert on Luskan plots, meet me in the library.

"Well, what do you think?" I asked, after I had told them the Luskan's proposal.

"It's a trap," Torio said, staring at her fingernails as if they displeased her.

"Well, of course it is a trap, dear girl," Sand said scornfully. "They are Luskans after all." Torio looked up to meet his gaze. They stared at each other like unfriendly cats.

"I think we all agree that it is likely a trap," I said. "The question is—is the bait worth going after? Has Sydney found a way to make the shadow reavers vulnerable or is she lying? What do we know about her? Sand? Torio?"

My words interrupted the staring contest before a winner could be declared.

"Natale's skills are said to be solid, if not inspired," Torio said. "She has studied in the libraries extensively, seeking ways to enlarge her meager talents, it is said. The fact that she is now the ambassador to Neverwinter speaks for itself. The job is no plum, particularly now," she said acidly. "She is not in high favor with the Arcane Brotherhood. Everything known about her reeks of mediocrity."

"Ah, but is that her true face or merely a front to deflect the attacks of rivals?" Sand purred.

"Well, that is the question, isn't it?" Torio purred back. The staring contest resumed.

"Ahem," I said. "The questions _I_ would like to have answered are: Has she found something of value, and how serious a threat does any trap she sets pose? In other words, is the payout worth the risk?"

Plenty of discussion and argument followed but in the end, the answer was: no one knew. I was disappointed but not surprised.

"Fine," I said, cutting into Sand and Torio's increasingly acrimonious comments. "Zhjaeve, what do you think? She asked for you specifically. There must be some reason for that."

The cleric gave me a slight nod of approval.

"I have been considering that," she said, in her low pleasant voice. "Know that the shadow reavers have one vulnerability—their True Names."

"Is it possible that Natale has acquired a list of these names?" I asked in growing excitement.

"That is what her words imply." Her eyes showed a glimmer of the same excitement that I felt. "Know that these shadow reavers may once have been men of Luskan but they are creatures of shadow now. Those of the Shadow Plane have been studied by my people. Perhaps their names have been transcribed from the githzerai or githyanki tongues. She may be unable to read or speak them."

"That seems logical," I agreed. "But why does she ask for Qara as well? Qara? Do you have any ideas?"

"Perhaps she has heard of my power and wishes to see it for herself," the sorcerer said, preening slightly.

"She wouldn't be trying to recruit Qara for Luskan?" I asked Sand.

"Unlikely," Sand said haughtily but he cast me a worried look.

"As if I'd be interested," Qara said, equally haughty. "The Hosttower sounds worse than the Academy."

"You have no idea," Sand muttered.

My decision was reached.

"Zhjaeve, I would like you to accompany me," I said briskly. "Qara, I'll leave it up to you. Will you come?"

"I'm not afraid of any Luskans," she said. "Let them try something. I'll burn them to ash." She grinned, the first happy expression I had seen on her face in a long time. That gave me pause.

We hadn't done well by Qara, I feared. She had insisted on accompanying us to Crossroad Keep and I'd often wondered why. She didn't really seem to have any friends here or any feeling of camaraderie, and that was as much her choice as anyone else's. Nor did she seem driven by any sense of duty or responsibility. Most of the time, she seemed bored and discontented. I really didn't understand her at all.

"That's my girl," I said, making a mental note to wear my fire resistant robe and my ring, if I could find it. Qara loved her fireballs. "Make your preparations and meet me in the hall after dinner. I'd appreciate it if word of this meeting does not make it out of this room," I added, looking mainly at Torio. She gave me a mocking little bow.

In addition to my robe, I threw on the Amulet of Truth that Lord Nasher had given me. Dealing with Luskans, that would surely come in handy. My favorite sword, a couple of wands, and I was set. Except…

After a moment's hesitation, I went down the corridor and tapped on Khelgar's door. Luckily I caught him in. He opened the door and grinned when he saw me.

"What can I do for you, lass?"

"Actually, I have a big favor to ask," I said.

"Anything!"

"You'd better let me ask it first," I said. This had seemed like a good idea but now I was a little embarrassed. "Khelgar, I was wondering if you would let me borrow the Gauntlets of Ironfist tonight."

"What!"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked," I said. "I know they belong to your clan and…"

"Nay, lass, you may wear them if you like. I'm just surprised, that's all." His eyes narrowed. He took the gauntlets off his dresser and tossed them to me with a casualness that neither one of us felt for this powerful relic of his people. "Hey, now, there's a fight brewing and you're not bringing Khelgar along? I don't think much of that."

"Kind of a girls' night out," I said. He continued to frown and I ended up telling the tale.

"I can't say as I trust those Luskan dogs."

"Me neither," I said. "I'm thinking they may be prepared for my spells." I flexed my hands in the gauntlets. I felt magical strength run through me, warm and potent like harvest mead. I actually bounced on my toes a little from the rush. "This might give them a nasty surprise though." Khelgar chuckled.

"You'd best wear the belt as well," he said finally. He fastened the Belt of Ironfist around me himself. It hung low on my hips but it didn't fall off. Added to the magic of the gauntlets, I felt like some great monstrous giant, ready to take on half the Realms. If this was the way Khelgar usually felt, no wonder he loved to fight. I was ready to go punch out a dragon.

Sydney Natale didn't stand a chance.

Khelgar gave me a sly look. "You'll be wanting the hammer too, now won't ye, lass?" We both laughed. The hammer of Torim Ironfist was a weapon of awesome power, but could only be wielded by one of his clan.

"I surely would!" He gave me a buffet between the shoulder blades that normally would have knocked me to my knees.

"You are a fine lass," he said approvingly. "But a dwarf, ye ain't. A pity, that."

I gave him a fond look.

"It is indeed."


	7. The Bait Is Taken

**Chapter 7…The Bait Is Taken**

The moment we were spotted returning from Sydney's charming little ambush, one of the lookouts on the wall went running back into the keep with the news. I knew Kana had been anxious. She had made it crystal clear that she hadn't wanted just the three of us to go off with the Luskans in the first place. Apparently she was not the only one who had been waiting up for us. Sand, Torio, Khelgar, and Ammon Jerro were standing around in the yard behind her.

"Hurrah, a welcoming party," I muttered under my breath. Zhjaeve gave me a questioning look but I just shook my head. I was tired and irritated and I desperately needed a hot bath. What I didn't need was a long debriefing.

Ammon's presence surprised me. As far as I knew, he had still been out with the Greycloaks when we had set forth to meet with the Luskan ambassador. Had he been worried about me? He stood apart from the others, arms crossed, face neutral.

Khelgar ran forward and gave me a playful swat on the back, apparently not noticing that the back of my robe was still wet with blood. I winced out of reflex but it didn't actually hurt. Zhjaeve had already healed the holes in my body. I hoped my squire could mend the holes in my robe without screwing up the enchantment.

"How did it go, lass? Was it a trap?" Then he noticed my blood on his hand and he frowned.

"It was," I said, stripping off the gauntlets and then the belt and handing them over, not without a pang of regret. They were no longer in the pristine state I had received them in. "Sorry about the blood. The Ironfist gear probably saved my life."

"You should have seen it," Qara said excitedly. Her voice made me feel so weary. "Jess _pulverized_ that Hosttower witch. She chopped her into chunks, there was blood everywhere. Look, I got some on my shoes. Eeuw. And guess what, we were attacked by a gigantic elemental animus that looked _just like_ _me_! Jess pulverized it too. And I made charcoal out of a whole bunch of Luskan assassins. It was great!"

"I take it that Neverwinter is now short one Luskan ambassador," Sand said dryly. "Again."

"I'm afraid so," I replied.

"I expect that the position will become one of the more unpopular postings in Luskan. It certainly seems to be unlucky this decade. Why Torio, perhaps you can petition to get your old job back," Sand said maliciously. Torio gave him a moue of annoyance.

"Kana, this is Jalboun of the Two Blades, formerly in the ambassador's employ," I said, breaking in on this little exchange before the daggers came out. "He wishes to join the Greycloaks effective immediately."

Kana looked him up and down, clearly not impressed by the warrior's rather barbaric appearance. She was going to have a fit when she learned what I had agreed to pay him and it would probably end up coming out of my purse. Jalboun had been darting curious looks around the keep, but at this, he made Kana a low bow.

"I am most eager to join your illustrious company," he said. "Having seen how well your women fight, your _men_ must be like gods." He smiled, seemingly oblivious to our astonished stares. I pulled Kana aside.

"See if you can find him some detached duties," I said in a low voice. We watched him ogle Torio, who responded with a sly smile. "Extremely detached." Maybe we could send him to Neverwinter. I wasn't sure what had possessed me to bribe Jalboun away from Sydney instead of just killing him but I was already wondering if I hadn't made one of those dreadful errors that one regrets over and over again.

"I hear you, Knight-Captain," she said grimly. She waved for a Greycloak and told him to get Jalboun settled down in the barracks. As soon as the mercenary left, Zhjaeve opened Sydney's battered scroll case and pulled out our prize.

"Know that we have the True Names of the shadow reavers," she said triumphantly.

Ammon's eyes gleamed and he moved towards her.

"Let me see that."

Zhjaeve took a step backward and clutched the scroll to her narrow chest.

"Know that this scroll has been entrusted to me and only I have the knowledge required to use it," she said. Ammon's expression darkened.

No one had actually entrusted the scroll to anyone—Zhjaeve had snatched the case from Natale's twitching corpse—but I let that pass.

"I think you will find that I, too, am capable of reading the True Names," Ammon said coldly. Studying the King of Shadows had been his life's work after all.

"You are a human. The True Names are of no use to you. You cannot possibly pronounce them."

"Know that I can," he said through gritted teeth. His eyes burned into her.

"Let him look at it," I said in what I hoped was a calming voice. If Zhjaeve tried to stand between Ammon and his consuming obsession to end the King of Shadows—well, that would be bad. That would be very bad, and we were already short of clerics. "We are working together, and if both of you can read the names that can only be of benefit to us all."

Zhjaeve stared at me over her veil and then she inclined her head.

"The Kalach-Cha speaks wisely," she said at last. "I shall make a copy for the warlock's use." Ammon gave her a wary nod.

"I have news as well," he told me. "The Greycloaks have found the camp of one of the shadow reavers." His eyes met mine. "It is nearby."

"Well, great," I said. "We can try out the scroll tomorrow." He gave me one of his sarcastic parodies of a smile.

* * *

Once I'd changed clothes and washed up, I headed straight for Sal's bar. After drinking most of a pitcher of water in my room, I was ready for something stronger.

Ammon was sitting at one of the back tables. I hadn't expected to see him there but I wasn't totally surprised either. He, however, had obviously been expecting me. He had a mug of ale ready for me.

"Heroism is dry work," he said in answer to my unspoken query. His words were mocking but his face was serious enough.

"Heroism." I had to laugh but it didn't come out sounding all that merry. "Butchery is also dry work." I drank down half the mug.

"So it is."

We sat and drank. After awhile, I felt some of the anger and frustration drain out of me. I was used to fighting unthinking monsters, but for some reason it was different when a fellow human decided to kill you.

Well, no, that wasn't the problem. Plenty of fellow humans (and other sentient beings) had tried to kill me. Maybe the difference was that Sydney had decided to kill me, not because I had something she wanted, not because of hatred, revenge or even out of patriotism, but merely because she had decided I was of no use to her. She wanted Zhjaeve because the githzerai could pronounce the True Names. Someone had contracted her to kill Qara (and I could think of several candidates off the top of my head). But to Sydney, killing me was more along the lines of taking out the trash—a chore that had to be done to keep things neat and tidy, necessary but meaningless.

I didn't like that.

Maybe I had gotten a little too accustomed to people thinking I was important, to being the Knight-Captain, to being some kind of a hero. I didn't like the thought of my death being someone's meaningless chore.

I tried to explain some of this to Ammon. Even in my own ears, my words sounded stupid. I half expected him to come back with something cynical—how all our lives were meaningless and I should lose the pride. I really didn't need to hear that just then. But when I met his eyes, he gave me a look that made me think maybe I was misjudging him. He refilled my mug. I settled back into my chair, stretched out my legs and felt a little happier for some reason.

I thought about asking Sal to close down the bar. It was late and there were things I wanted to say without being overheard by the travelers and merchants who passed through the keep and ended up in the Phoenix Tail. I looked up to see that most of the customers had already left. Sal winked at me as he ushered out the last of the strangers.

There were times when Crossroad Keep felt like a heavy chain slung around my neck—and there were times when it felt like my one true home.

"How did you find the camp of the shadow reaver?" I asked Ammon once we had a bit of privacy.

"Elanee, through her animal…minions…sensed something unnatural in the nearby forest," he said. "I went out with a squad of Greycloaks to check. I thought it was probably zombies. Imagine our surprise," he added dryly.

"There's nothing quite like running into an invincible monster to spoil your day."

"Indeed."

"Still, you managed to get the Greycloaks away unscathed," I said. He raised a brow. "Kana told me," I added. She had noticed the rents in the back of my robe and had followed me to my room to make sure I had been properly healed. She had also filled me in on Ammon's exploits. "She was most impressed."

She had been impressed not only that Ammon had been capable of protecting the Greycloaks, but that he had bothered to do so. I decided not to pass along that observation, not that Ammon would care that he was regarded with such distrust.

"Simple misdirection," he said flatly. "There was nothing impressive to it." It was my turn to raise a brow but apparently he was done with that subject. "The shadow reaver was not alone. He had a couple of blade golems with him and something else. Shadows, I think. They did not show themselves but I sensed their presence."

"A shadow reaver with blade golems?" That seemed an odd partnership. "Is Garius supplying the constructs?"

"So I would assume. You'll want to bring your armored warriors against them. Casavir and Khelgar would be good choices."

"Yes," I mused. "Too bad Grobnar hasn't got our own blade golem working reliably yet. Do you think the shadow reaver will move his camp tonight?"

"I would."

"So would I. I'll bring my tracker as well." Bishop was probably in a better mood after half-murdering me in our sparring session and he was always up for a fight, especially if I paid him for it. Ammon frowned a bit though as if he disagreed.

"It won't be difficult to track a pair of blade golems through the woods," he said. "Surely the druid could do so easily." I shook my head a little.

"Maybe but it would be better to be prepared. We'd feel like such fools if we lost the damned things, especially so close to the keep. Zhjaeve should finish scribing the scroll tonight and she will give you the copy in the morning. Do you want to come along tomorrow?"

"Of course."

I knew he would say that.

"I guess we'll find out tomorrow if the scroll really works or if it is an elaborate fake put together by the Hosttower."

Ammon gave me a jaded look.

"I wish you hadn't raised that possibility."

"I wish I hadn't _thought_ it," I said in rueful agreement. "Now, of course, I can think of nothing more likely. It just seems such a Luskanthing to do. And I would truly hate to let Sydney Natale get the last laugh." I rubbed the small of my back. "Her damned assassins backstabbed me three times while I was killing her. Zhjaeve spent the entire fight keeping me healed up. It made me mad as fire."

"Was your little sorceress of much use?"

"Oh, ye gods, I feel lucky to still have my eyebrows," I said. "She killed her share but her control—well, she was terribly distracting. We will _not_ be bringing Qara tomorrow. She and Zhjaeve can rest. Zhjaeve will probably be up most of the night scribing." The True Names were long. Really, really long—I'd never seen anything like it. A name should be short—like Jess.

"You should get some rest too."

The tension between us, which had never been nonexistent, suddenly ratcheted up a very large notch. I could feel the heat start to build under my skin.

"Yes," I said but I looked at Ammon and I didn't get up. Because I had spent the whole day (during the times when no one was trying to kill me) wondering why in the Nine Hells I hadn't taken him up on his offer the night before. And now I was wondering if this wasn't a good time to ask for a second chance. And I was wondering if I had the nerve to say anything at all, and if so, what response I might get.

Also I was wondering where I had put the contraceptive potion that Zhjaeve had given me.

I was pretty sure that at least some of these thoughts were showing on my face, judging by the sudden amusement shining in Ammon's eyes. He leaned forward and I guess I did too because suddenly our faces were quite close together. My heart began to race with that same excited yet sick sensation I had felt when I finally reached the lair high on Mount Galardrym and caught my first glimpse of a real, live dragon—and realized that it planned on killing and eating me, and not necessarily in that order.

"Jess," he said. "Tomorrow we face a shadow reaver. You should go get some _rest_." His hand brushed against my fingers on the table. His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. "There will be other nights."

So I went off to my bed like a good little Knight-Captain, alone. If the shadow reaver ended up killing me tomorrow, I was going to come back and haunt the damned warlock. And I was going to be one pissed-off ghost.


	8. One Reaver Down

**Chapter 8…One Reaver Down**

The True Name worked—eventually.

It took Ammon an endlessly long time to read it out, a time where the rest of us—me, Casavir, Khelgar, Bishop, and Elanee—were pressed by relentless blade golems, by creepy shadows that drained our vitality, and of course by their master, the shadow reaver himself. He had lunged towards Ammon the moment the warlock had began reciting from the scroll and it fell to me to hold him off while he was invulnerable.

Knight-Captain is a really fun job.

The reaver fought with a scythe that was brutally difficult to block, particularly since I don't use a shield. I had to rely on my spells to protect me. Casavir and Khelgar were busy with the golems since their hammers seemed much more effective against the constructs than swords. Bishop had dropped his bow for his blades and was fighting near Elanee, killing shadows and covering her when she needed to cast a healing or protection spell on one of us. (Protecting the group's main healer was as close to selfless service as could be expected from Bishop.) She had summoned various beasts of the forest to our aid but they hadn't lasted long.

I had enhanced my strength but my haste spell had worn off and it was all I could do to hold the reaver in check. I didn't bother trying to counter his attacks since he seemed to heal faster than I could hit him. The reaver had about chipped my last stoneskin off and when it was gone, I was going to be in trouble. I had a couple of other protections ready but it didn't look like he was going to take a breather anytime soon so I could cast them. I hate opponents who don't breathe. If I ran to safety, he'd be on Ammon in a heartbeat and I couldn't let that happen. It wasn't like Ammon could stop in mid-recitation so he could get his own protections up.

Hells, hells, hells.

"Read faster, Ammon," I shouted. The reaver tried to move past me to attack the warlock and again, I held him off. Ammon didn't reply (which was just as well) nor did he seem to recite any faster but his voice took on a more deeply irritated tone. So at least he'd heard me.

Khelgar let out an enormous yell. He had brought down one of the blade golems. My eyes only flicked away for the briefest moment but that was enough. The shadow reaver hit me with stunning force and my stoneskin crumbled away. I didn't actually feel any pain from the wound in my thigh, and that was bad. Also it is not exactly a sign of good health when blood sprays out of your body. I fell to the ground, helpless, unable to move or cast a spell or even come up with any memorable last words.

As I waited for death I was vaguely aware of Elanee shouting behind me. The reaver readied his scythe and then stopped. Although his bone box of a face didn't seem capable of showing much in the way of emotion, he cocked his head in the simulation of surprise. Then I became aware of something forming around me, like a thick wet blanket.

I was surprised too.

It wrapped around my feet, my legs, and my torso with dizzying speed. Finally even my face was covered and then the—whatever it was—hardened. I couldn't move, I couldn't see, I could barely hear or even breathe. It was terrifying. Somehow I hadn't expected death to be quite so weird and sticky.

If I could have spoken, I would have shrieked when something slammed into my side. Thud. Thud. My dawdling brain finally realized that I was inside one of Elanee's healing cocoon spells and the shadow reaver was trying to cut his way through the casing that bound and protected me.

Even through the cocoon, I could feel the crackle of Ammon's eldritch blast pass over me in a surge of tingling energy. I hoped that meant that he had finished his recitation of the name. I fought to get free from the cocoon but it held me tight, and I totally missed the triumphant end of the battle. I did manage to scrape the gunk off my face in time to watch Ammon loot the reaver's body and find another shard from the Sword of Gith. Why the shadow reaver was carrying it was a question which he was too dead to answer. Ammon suggested he might have been using it to track the location of the other shards.

"Thanks," I told Elanee. "I didn't think I was going to survive that time." I nobly refrained from complaining (since her spell had saved my life) but I was pretty sure the gooey remains of the cocoon would never come out of my robe and it was one of my favorites.

"I will do my best to protect you at all times," she said seriously. "Remember that I am always watching you."

I believe that was meant to be reassuring but it left me shaking my head.

* * *

"Why is it so important to you to know who put the glyph on your bed?" Ammon asked. We were sitting in his workroom in the basement of Crossroad Keep. We had killed a shadow reaver, recovered a shard, and I had managed to wash the cocoon gunk out of my hair. So overall I was having a good day. All I wanted to do now was avoid any more hearty congratulations from my friends and retainers. Because we had killed one shadow reaver—one—and it had been difficult. And I didn't want to think about how many more we had ahead of us.

As it turned out, the basement was one of the most private areas in the entire keep because almost everyone wished to avoid two of the denizens who lurked there: Grobnar and Kistrel. For that matter, I don't suppose that many people came seeking out Ammon Jerro himself. And the summoning circle on the floor, souvenir of Black Garius' occupation of the keep, made most folks rather uneasy. Hells, it made _me_ uneasy and I was planning on using it.

"But…it was an act of deliberate malice. Don't you think we ought to know who did it?" Ammon shrugged.

"You have enemies. I have enemies. What difference does it make, which enemy was responsible, so long as we guard against future attacks?"

"Yet it seems such a _personal_ thing to do. And what is the purpose of sending me, um, erotic dreams?"

"I suspect it was meant to be more than that," he said.

"Like what?" He gave me a look. Oh. "You mean that succubus was supposed to actually have sex with me?"

"That is what I mean," he said. Yikes. He didn't smile but his eyes were laughing at me.

"But why?"

"The succubus would then have power over you. There are many who will wish to have control over you, Jess. You are a creature of destiny."

I made a face. That sounded even worse than being called a hero, which was bad enough. I spent a few moments absorbing the full unpleasantness of this thought.

"Would Mephasm know who had put that glyph on my bed?"

"He might. You propose to bargain with the devil?" Ammon asked skeptically.

"I was just going to ask him."

"Do you think he will simply give this knowledge away?"

"Why not? He was quite polite when I met him at the githyanki lair. And he seemed pretty grateful when I released him from their circle. So…he owes me a favor. Right? Isn't that how it's done?"

Ammon didn't exactly roll his eyes but the look he gave me came across like he had.

"You know little of dealing with his kind."

"Well, yeah. I'm aware of that. That's why I thought you might help me."

He gave me another look but after a bit of nagging, he did agree to help me prepare the summoning circle.

"You do realize that Mephasm is not the devil's true name," Ammon told me, as I got ready to start the summoning. I froze.

"He told me it was," I said. "I used it to banish him in the githyanki cave." Ammon gave me that look again. "Well, do _you_ know his true name?"

"Not in its entirety."

"I thought he was your ally. I thought you guys were pals or something."

"I had a bargain with him," he said coldly. "You helped him break it. We were never 'pals'."

"So I'm totally wasting my time here?"

"Yes." He stared right at me. His gaze didn't shift, his eyes didn't blink, but I knew he was being evasive.

"Ammon," I said warningly. "Are you telling me a fib?" His eyes were still cold but he relented slightly.

"The name he gave you is a portion of his true name. You can use it to command his attention. It will be his choice to heed your summons and you will have no power over him, although the summoning circle will give you some slight protection from him—if you make no errors in its use." His tone was even more discouraging than his words.

"So you don't think I should try this."

"It is ill-advised."

So of course I did it anyway.

Mephasm made us wait. I wondered if there was a calculation he ran—too short a time and we might think him anxious—too long a time and we might give up. I'd spent enough time in Nasher's court to be familiar with this little game. I sat cross-legged on the floor and meditated on the new spell Sand was trying to teach me. I thought it would look rather rude if I read one of Grobnar's books (he had an astonishing collection) or wandered around the room muttering to myself like Ammon was doing.

"I told you we would meet again."

Startled, I leapt to my feet, or rather, stumbled to my knees. Mephasm didn't precisely smile but he did look a bit smug. He stood before me, tall and imposing, yet also somehow exuding an air of approachability, like some wise and powerful yet benevolent uncle. I knew I should be terrified of him. Ammon had reminded me that he was a pit fiend, and a viciously strong one at that. I knew his stately appearance was a total lie but, by Mystra, it was a beautifully crafted lie.

"It's good to see you again," I said. He and Ammon eyed each other. They made extremely neutral nods to each other at precisely the same moment.

"What is it that you seek from me, Jess Farlong?" Mephasm asked.

I didn't have an opening speech prepared so it seemed best to just jump right in.

"Someone inscribed the glyph of the succubus Hatsou on my bed," I said. "I'd like to know who did it and why."

"You seek information."

"Yes." I was pretty sure I had just said that.

"And what do you offer?"

I blinked at him.

"Um, my good will?"

Mephasm turned his head to look at Ammon and raised one brow. I wondered if that was where Ammon got the trick.

"I am not involved in this," Ammon said, crossing his arms over his chest and generally broadcasting an air of unhelpful distance. The devil turned back to me.

"Then let me inform you that your good will is of little value to me, Jess Farlong."

He'd sure sung a different tune when he was trapped in the githyankis' base, tortured by succubi, begging me to release him. There's gratitude for you.

"I've helped you twice now."

"And both times, I repaid your aid with information. I acknowledge no debt between us."

The devil's eyes, still filled with that disarming politeness, watched me intently. I think this was the part where I was supposed to ask him what he wanted and he would mention some harmless little task he'd like done. And everything would go downhill from there. I held no illusions that I could outmaneuver Mephasm, who'd no doubt been making contracts with mortals for more years than I'd drawn breaths. No thanks.

"Oh. Okay then. Sorry for bothering you." I approached the circle so I could banish him. Before I could speak, he interrupted.

"You do, however, possess something of some slight value that appears to be of little use to you. Perhaps we can Deal."

Mephasm came closer, to the very edge of the summoning circle. I stepped closer as well. He leaned towards me, his voice quiet and intimate. His air of wise benevolence grew suspiciously stronger.

"There are those who place a value on the virginity of a hero," he said. "More precisely, there is a value to the _taking_ of the virginity of a hero. You should consider trading this asset instead of simply gifting it away." At this, his eyes slid to Ammon. Nine Hells, was Mephasm spying on me too? Didn't I get enough of that from Elanee?

"Trade my virginity? Are you suggesting that I sleep with you?" I was afraid that I could hide neither my astonishment nor my revulsion at this thought. Although Mephasm was easy on the eyes and spoke nicely enough, the thought of having sex with a pit fiend was far from appealing.

Plus, there was the smell. The smell was a problem.

Mephasm held up one elegant hand.

"Not with me personally," he said. For all I knew, he felt the same revulsion I did, but if so he hid it better. "I could, however, broker a Deal." He gave me a wise and benevolent smile.

Wow, he must really think I had just fallen off the turnip wagon. I knew I was just a West Harbor hick but I was more than a little tired of being patronized. I got enough of that from Sir Nevalle, Neeshka and Ammon. Hells, even Elanee was condescending sometimes and she was so naïve that she hadn't even known what money was when I first met her.

Just as I opened my mouth to ask if I looked stupid or desperate enough to sell off my own virginity to some infernal creature, Mephasm added smoothly, "It can be a most pleasant experience. There is much to be gained for so small a cost. You might ask Ammon Jerro if he was satisfied with the bargain he made himself, so many years ago. He seemed pleased enough at the time."

I turned and stared at Ammon. His face darkened with anger.

"Curse you, Mephasm, shut your mouth or…"

Mephasm raised his hand again.

"You did not summon me here, Ammon Jerro, and you have no power over me now."

The look the two exchanged told me that Ammon had not been exaggerating when he had told me that they were not pals.

"Well, thanks for your time, Mephasm," I said quickly, and prepared to end the summoning. "I will, um, think about your offer. I think we're done for now."

The little bow he gave me was just polite enough that I couldn't tell if it was meant to be ironic. It probably was. And then he was gone, leaving a mild stench behind and a lot of questions.


	9. A Failure of Will

**Chapter 9…A Failure of Will**

"You know, Ammon, I think you were right." He gave me a wary look. "Summoning Mephasm was ill-advised."

"It could have gone worse."

"Yeah, I realize that," I said as I flopped down in his chair, suddenly exhausted. I kicked off my shoes and put my feet up on his workbench. "I don't suppose you have anything to drink down here?" At this time of day the kitchen would still be occupied with people who might feel the need to serve me or nag me into eating the dinner I'd skipped out on. I didn't feel like dealing with all that yet.

Ammon shook his head.

"The gnome keeps a bottle of some vile peppermint-flavored liquor in his desk."

"Is that why his breath's always so sweet? All this time I thought he was hiding a stash of candy." I decided to pass on the liquor, which was probably poisonous to humans. He might look small and fragile but Grobnar had the constitution of a cockroach.

"So," I said. "Ammon?" His look became even warier. "May I ask you something?"

His brows lowered over a ferocious glare.

"Yes, when I was even younger and stupider than you appear to be, I did bargain away my virginity," he snapped, as if he'd been waiting for the question.

"Well, I figured that part out," I said mildly. The look on his face made it fairly obvious he wasn't going to tell me what he got for it. Not that I really needed to know. Not that it was any of my business or anything.

"What I was going to ask was—what's the point? What do they want with someone's virginity? It's not something you can hang on a wall or tuck away in a display case. How could something so…ephemeral…be of any value?" I had a thought. "The demons don't go around _bragging_ about stuff like that, do they?"

Ammon gave me a sour look that made me wish I'd held my tongue.

"Your tact is beginning to rival the gnome's."

"Sorry," I squeaked. Oh hells, I was starting to sound like Grobnar too.

"I'm not so sure the virginity is of any value in itself," he said, still angry. "Envision this as an opening skirmish in a larger war. It is a small, useful and pleasant bargain meant to lull you along into greater, more binding and more lucrative deals."

"Like a tout outside a gambling pit handing out free tokens to the high stakes games in the back room. No one ever just cashes them in and walks away."

"Something like that." At least he wasn't glaring at me anymore. He leaned against the workbench and looked down at me. "Manipulating youth by their gonads is a custom in the Lower Planes and devils do set store by their traditions," he added. I tried to ignore my own faint blush.

"So you think Mephasm wants something from me."

"They always want something, Jess," he said. "Those who are cursed to be heroes are notoriously poor bargainers. Mephasm is well aware of that fact, of course. You will promise anything when you face an impossible battle and the fate of many depends upon you. Those of the Lower Planes have much to offer. It is only if you are so unfortunate as to actually _survive_ the impossible battle that you begin to learn the truth."

"And that is?" I asked softly. He had turned away from me so that it seemed as if he was speaking to himself.

"You learn that you have accrued debts that you have no way to repay. Others—innocents—must pay them for you. And you learn that the aid these devils and demons have offered—all that had been paid for so dearly—will fail you at the worst possible time."

"Do you mean the Sword of Gith?"

His bitter look made me feel a little sick.

"At West Harbor, it was I who failed the sword. My will faltered. I allowed myself to be distracted, just as you were distracted today against the shadow reaver. You almost paid with your life for that mistake. Where would that leave us, Jess? What will we do if you die?"

At least I had staunch friends like Elanee and Casavir and the others to save me from my mistakes. Ammon had had devils and demons. Was the failure truly his? Or was it theirs? Or was it his for relying upon them in the first place? With Ammon, nothing was ever simple.

"You could try digging the shard out of my body and using it yourself," I suggested.

Ammon gave me another frown.

"I have no reason to believe that would work and every reason to believe it would not."

Having broken the sword once, it made sense that he would be reluctant to try again. Well, at least that meant he wasn't likely to try to take the sword away from me once we figured out how to put it back together. That was a nightmarish thought that popped into my head from time to time, mostly when Ammon was being more than usually overwhelming.

"Did Mephasm help you get the Sword of Gith?"

"It was the only weapon that could destroy the King of Shadows. Or so I was told. And so I did what I had to do. Nasher would not listen to me. He would not muster his troops in time. So I gathered an army of my own and I drove the King of Shadows as far as I could from Neverwinter. We ended up facing each other in West Harbor, as you know. I could have ended it there twenty years ago…but I failed." He took an angry breath. "I failed at West Harbor and the sword shattered," Ammon said flatly. "When your turn comes, you must not fail."

"But…"

"No buts. You must not fail as I did." His face was deliberately expressionless but his eyes held anger, frustration, regret…and pain. I wanted to glance away but that seemed craven.

"Zhjaeve told me that this shard within me was necessary," I said. "She implied that no human could truly wield the sword as it was meant to be used unless it was a part of them." I tapped my chest where the shard had entered my body. "She believes that it was fated that the sword break, so that it could be forged anew, so that it could _change_."

"It is good to know that my failure, with all its wasted lives and time, served a useful purpose after all," he said with cool sarcasm. "I will be sure to thank the githzerai for this insight."

The anger was gone from his eyes. In its place there was assessment. I wasn't completely sure I wanted to know what he was thinking but I waited.

"So," he said at last. "Will you bargain with Mephasm?"

"Sell him my virginity—or anything else?" I made a face. "Certainly not. Things are different for me than they were for you, Ammon. I'm not fighting the King of Shadows alone. People believe in his existence now. I do not need to sell myself for an army—I have one. All I need now is the sword."

"We will find a way to re-forge it."

"Yes," I said because there was no other answer, really. It had to be done so there had to be a way.

"Your mother," he said, after another long pause. "I saw her that night, when I battled the avatar."

"You did?" I wondered why he was telling me this, and why now. "I have no memory of that night—or of her. Did…what did she look like?"

"I only caught a glimpse of her. She was human, dark hair. Her arms were wrapped around you, to protect you. I never saw you but I heard you cry out."

I tapped my chest.

"Duncan says that the shard that's inside me passed completely through her body before it hit me. If she hadn't shielded me, I would have died." I hesitated then asked, "The sword didn't just break, did it? Not like snapping a plowshare in hard ground."

"No. It flew apart with such force that the King of Shadow's avatar…ceased to exist on our plane. In that instant of time, I thought the shadow was destroyed, and me with it. And that would have been a fair trade." His self-mocking expression was back. "I really thought I was dead, you know, dead and in the hells. I was struck blind and helpless, and that was how my enemies found me. After I became…convinced of my own survival, I came to realize that the King of Shadows had also survived. Only the sword had been destroyed."

He gazed down at me as I lolled in his chair. For some time I had become increasingly aware that this lowest reach of the keep was very quiet and isolated. It was like we were alone together in our own private plane of existence. Although the hour was not late, it felt like it ought to be.

I stood up, suddenly restless. I had done what I had come here for—the summoning. I really had no other reason to be here and there were others with demands on my time. I should go before I said or did something regrettable.

He moved closer. His anger and frustration seemed to ease as he looked at me.

"Your scar," he said softly. "May I see it?"

"I have many scars," I said but I was being coy. I knew the one he meant.

"Don't we all?"

"The shard is in my chest."

"Show me." His eyes were challenging. I did not like to back down from a challenge and he knew that. This was blatant manipulation. I smiled a little to myself.

I wore a doeskin jerkin fastened with a row of carved rosewood toggles. I unhooked them one by one. I felt him watching me closely but I kept my eyes on my task. Underneath, my linen shirt was tied up the front. I loosened the ties so I could fold back the cloth to expose my scar, just a short straight scar, faded to a silvery line.

"It's not much to look at," I said.

Ammon traced the line of the scar with his thumb. His fingers brushed against the curve of my breast and came to rest under my shirt. His hand was as warm as I remembered it. I could scarcely breathe.

"The shard must lie dangerously near to your heart."

"So I am told," I said in a breathless voice.

"I can feel the power from it."

Any clever repartee I might have aspired to had all dried up. My mouth was suddenly dry too. All I could do was to stare up at him. His fingers continued to stroke along my skin. His eyes were unfocused.

"I know this power. I…remember. I can feel it in the beating of your heart."

My heart wasn't just beating, it was _pounding_. My pulse was thundering in my ears. I wondered for a moment if I would actually faint, like some delicately reared damsel in a bard's tale.

"Ammon," I said, or I meant to. My lips moved but no sound came out. My arms went around his neck. His hands dropped to my waist and suddenly we were pressed together. I felt his beard brush my face and then his lips were on mine and I was lost. Soon we were in his bedchamber, the door was barred, and our clothes were dropping like leaves in the fall. I guess I should have felt at least a little embarrassed or shy but mostly what I felt was…desperate.

I thought I had a pretty fair notion of what was going to happen next. I was a farm girl, after all, and besides Bevil had shown me his, um, special equipment behind the barn when we were kids. I had to admit, though, that my eyes opened wide at the daunting prospect before me. I hadn't realized there was such a vast difference between an adolescent boy and a man. Oh, ye gods. How did—no, it had to be possible. People did this sort of thing all the time.

"Don't be afraid," Ammon murmured.

"I am not afraid," I said and that was true enough. It was not fear that made me tremble. It was the sensation of his bare skin pressed against mine.

I'd often felt his power—dark and potent, so different from my own magic—when he called an invocation or blasted our enemies. But now he was touching me and his power licked along my body like black flames. Every nerve seemed brushed with fire. It felt _wonderful_. Was this desire? Did a man's touch always feel like this? Or was this what Neeshka had meant when she implied that warlocks were not like other men? Because the thought of having that exquisite fire actually _inside_ me drove me half out of my mind.

Then I was lying in his bed, and he was poised above me with a hint of a question in his eyes, as if to give me one last chance to back out.

"Please," I said. I begged, really. "Please, please, please." His lips turned up.

And then there was a tap at the door.

"Sir Ammon?" Grobnar warbled. "Are you in there?"

"Gods, no," he muttered. His breath was as ragged as mine. He dropped his head and pressed his forehead against my shoulder.

"Hush and he will go away," I whispered in his ear. There was silence and then another tap. Then more silence.

"Sir Bishop, he is not here," Grobnar said.

"Of course he is in there, fool, or the door wouldn't be locked now, would it."

There was a loud thudding. It sounded like Bishop was kicking the door instead of knocking like a civilized person. I'd just spent a fortune getting this part of the keep renovated. If he wrecked one of my new doors, I was going to take the cost of it out of his mangy hide.

"Jerro, open up, we need the Knight-Captain." Bishop gave an angry mocking laugh. "If you are done with her, that is."

Mystra's breath, Bishop was spying on me too. Gods, who _wasn't_ watching me?

"That's it," Ammon said. "I am going to kill him. Now." He threw back the covers. "I am going to kill them both."

I grabbed his arm.

"No, don't," I said. "I can't let you do that. It would be wrong." I got up and looked for my pants. "Let me do it."


	10. Gith's Broken Blade

**Chapter 10…Gith's Broken Blade**

Bishop must have heard me unbar the door, because when I flung it open, I found him standing well back out of the way. The door slammed against the stop instead of against his face. What a shame.

My first impulse was to stiff-arm him against the wall but he had moved out of my reach. He also had the foresight to stand slightly behind Grobnar. And despite my overwhelmingly strong impulse to throttle him until he squeaked, I had sparred with him often enough to know that he would always be too quick and too powerful for me to tackle bare-handed.

But I hadn't used up all my spells at the battle with the shadow reaver.

I could feel my hair, which Ammon had unwisely released from its bondage, start to rise and crackle with energy as I began to focus my will. Bishop's eyes widened slightly and the smirk vanished from his face.

"For your sake," I said, "I hope Lord Nasher is at the gate or the keep is on fire because if not, you are about to become a greasy smear on my freshly plastered wall."

I felt Ammon looming behind me. I gave him a glance over my shoulder.

"Can you still do that trick where you boil a person's blood out of his body?" I asked him.

"Let's find out."

Bishop's eyes darted to each of us and he held out his hand.

"Zhjaeve sent me to get you," he said. "She wants to see you—both of you—in the war room as soon as possible."

I frowned. Of all the reasons I had expected Bishop to give as an excuse for this rude interruption, Zhjaeve ranked pretty high on the most unlikely list. Who would make up such a thing? He must be telling the truth.

"Doing errands for the gith now, are you Bishop?" Ammon growled. As usual, he cut straight to the discrepancy. Yes, Zhjaeve might wish to see me, but we all used Wolf's pack of urchins to run messages throughout the keep. Bishop wouldn't have come here to fetch me—and he wouldn't have dragged Grobnar along as a shield—without an ulterior motive. He was snooping around. My frown deepened.

"Well my goodness, my hair looked just like that once," Grobnar said, staring up at me. "By some mischance I managed to mistake my lightning wand for my comb. To this day I still have this little round bald spot, right here, see it? And…"

"Tell me later, Grobnar," I said and turning back to Bishop, asked, "What does she want?" He shrugged.

"Something to do with that shard we found today," he drawled. Ammon and I exchanged glances.

"Fine," I said. "I'm coming." Bishop quirked an eyebrow and looked me up and down. My shirt was billowing loose and the tie was undone. My jerkin was still on the floor somewhere, as were my shoes and socks. My hair was a lost cause. I didn't really care. I didn't think Zhjaeve was going to be particularly shocked by the sight of my loose hair and bare feet. I was reasonably certain she would not inspect me for undergarments.

Ammon looked like he always did. It didn't seem quite fair somehow.

"Nice hair," Bishop murmured as I swept haughtily past him. He neatly sidestepped the elbow I aimed at his gut. That didn't seem quite fair either.

Bishop and Grobnar both followed us to the war room but I gave them a look and they suddenly realized they needed to be elsewhere. Zhjaeve had all the shards that we had found so far laid out on the table like a confusing puzzle.

"Look," the githzerai said, her voice throbbing with excitement. She took me by the hand to draw me closer to the table. The new shard was larger than the rest and she had placed it first in the lineup. I had seldom seen her eyes so bright.

"Know that with this shard, we now have enough to recreate the Sword of Gith!"

"And how do you know that?" Ammon asked harshly.

"I simply know."

I gave her a dubious look.

"Are you certain?" I asked, "Because there sure are a lot of pieces still missing."

"You doubt when you should not." Her tone was chiding.

"Yeah, but it still looks like more air than sword." I looked down and realized that my hand was caressing the new shard. For some reason, no doubt due to the shard lodged in my chest, it made me feel good to touch the other pieces. For the longest time I had carried them in a small pouch close to my skin and it still gave me something of a pang whenever I left them behind.

"Maybe the shards could be recast into a smaller blade," I added but the thought of melting them down gave me another pang.

"You wish us to face the King of Shadows with the Paring Knife of Gith?" Ammon asked scornfully. "I think not."

"How do we fix it then?" I looked at Ammon. He looked at Zhjaeve. I got another one of those sinking feelings that I hated so much.

"Know that the Blade of Gith cannot be forged with heat. Something greater must be used to unite the shards and make them whole."

"Something greater?" I said. "Okay. What then?" Ammon and Zhjaeve exchanged another one of those looks and this one seemed a bit more antagonistic.

"I still do not understand how the sword was broken in the first place," she said. "Was it the power of the avatar of the King of Shadows?"

Ammon just gave a curt shrug that I could tell irritated Zhjaeve. Frankly, it irritated me as well. He had been there, after all. We hadn't. Well, technically I _had _been there, but surely a babe in arms wasn't expected to contribute to the failure analysis of a legendary weapon.

"It broke," he said at last. "Why, I do not know."

He had told me it had broken because his will had faltered but apparently there was more to it than that.

"I had thought you would know more," she said, with a hint of accusation in her voice. "You held it when it was unmade, did you not?"

"Just as it returned the avatar to the Shadow Plane, the force of the sword's destruction cast me into the Lower Planes, where I was detained for quite some time," he said angrily. "I have had little leisure since then to discover exactly how the blade was broken."

"Then what do we do?" I asked. Zhjaeve continued to look steadily at Ammon. "Come on, now, what do we do?"

"There is one who has had much time to consider it," he said at last. "And he knows something of the King of Shadows as well."

"Not another devil, I hope."

"No," he said, giving me a slight frown. "The King of Shadows has many enemies. In the past, he fought an ancient dragon known as Nolaloth. Nolaloth was recruited by the Illefarn Empire to aid in their fight against the King of Shadows but he was struck down. His spirit was chained to this realm until they could find a way to heal him."

"And did they?" I asked.

"They did not. As he fell, so also did Illefarn fall. The resurrection of their mercenary was not one of their priorities, it seems."

"Will he help us? _Can_ he help us?"

"I do not know. His hatred of the King of Shadows is great, so he may be willing to help for that reason. As to whether he has any knowledge that is of use to us, I do not know that either. He might." Ammon moved closer to the table and looked down at the shards. His face was unreadable.

"Nolaloth has a history both with the githyanki and their silver swords. He may know something of Gith's blade. And Nolaloth has long watched the efforts of his enemy to claim this plane. He knows much of his tactics. I spoke to him years ago and thought I had learned what he knew of the King of Shadows. But that was before the blade was broken. It may be worth your while to speak to him yourself."

A dragon. Great. I had barely survived my last attempt to get something out of a dragon. At least this one was already dead. Ammon ignored my sour look. He walked over to the map on the wall and after a few moments' study, put his finger on it. "His spirit is trapped in this valley. This is where you must go," he told me. He gave Zhjaeve a look of dislike. "I am sure your gith follower would like to accompany you."

"Whoa," I said. "Sounds like you aren't planning on coming."

"Nolaloth and I did not part on friendly terms," he said tersely. "I doubt he will speak to you at all if he senses that I am in your company."

So Nolaloth was a dragon, he was dead, and he was touchy. This just got better and better.

"This dragon of yours is a sudden revelation," Zhjaeve said and it sounded like she had even more reservations than I did. "Why have you not spoken of him before?"

"If I had thought it relevant, I would have," he snapped.

The two continued to bicker while I studied the map. The valley was quite a distance away and the path looked to be over rough terrain as well. Even traveling lightly, it was likely to take a ten-day or more to reach. This quest would cost us a month, and if it chanced that the dragon knew nothing to help us, that month would be a total loss. Still, I didn't have any better ideas.

I was going to have to give Casavir command of the keep. Kana was a good officer but she wouldn't make decisions. Khelgar and I could handle the fighting. Zhjaeve was an excellent healer and she would be essential if we ran into any shadow reavers, but on the trail, she was barely competent to gather firewood. Damn it, I was going to need Bishop as a scout and a hunter.

"If we're going to do this, we'd better get ready," I said, breaking in on the argument. Those two wouldn't agree that water was wet. "Zhjaeve, you will come?"

"Know that I go where the Kalach-Cha goes," she said. Ammon gave me a look of extreme irony.

"Then go pack your gear," I said, making a mental note to send her my squire so she didn't forget anything essential like armor or weapons. The last road trip we'd taken had been something of a fiasco. "We'll start in the morning."

"I need to go tell Casavir he's now in charge of the keep," I told Ammon. "Please try to support him while I'm gone." He gave me a look just this side of an eye-roll but I knew the two men rubbed each other the wrong way, always. At least Ammon, unlike Bishop, wouldn't go out of his way to needle the paladin. I hoped.

"Know that the power of Nolaloth's spirit draws lesser dragons like flies to dung," he said. I hated when he mimicked Zhjaeve. It was so disrespectful—and besides, I was afraid I might start doing it too. "You're going to need another wizard to back you up."

"Now you tell me." It would have to be Sand. At least his constant complaints were more entertaining than Qara's and he was less likely to 'accidentally' target the party with a fireball if he woke up on the wrong side of the bedroll. Besides, being an elf, he never fell asleep on watch. And maybe he would teach me some more spells while we were on the road.

I gave one of Wolf's minions a message for Khelgar and for Bishop. They were in the pub no doubt. I went to my room and found that my squire was already packing my gear. The keep gossips knew my decisions sooner than I did, it seemed. I sent her off to help Zhjaeve. Just as she left, there was a tap on the door. The door was already open but I waved Casavir inside.

"Oh, good, I need to speak to you," I said.

"And I wish to speak to you," he said gravely.

"What troubles you?" I asked, concerned by his expression. He shut the door and came closer. I was seriously alarmed that he had felt the need to close the door.

"I sensed an infernal presence here in the keep today," he said in a low voice. "I could not find you earlier to warn you. I fear that Ammon Jerro is summoning his old allies. Perhaps he was also behind the attack on you the other night."

I felt a flush burn high on my cheeks.

"That was me," I admitted. "I am the one who summoned Mephasm. Ammon actually advised against it." Casavir's frown deepened as I explained what I had done.

"You must not bargain with these creatures," he finally said.

"You're right." And then I explained my mission to Nolaloth, and that I needed him to watch over the keep while I was gone. "I can't think of anyone I'd trust more," I said and I pressed his hand.

"I would rather go with you," he said. "The preparations for war go well. Kana or Sir Nevalle can oversee them as well as I can."

"I disagree," I said. "Besides, what if Nasher suddenly decides he needs half my Greycloaks for a parade or half my workers to rebuild the city baths? You can say no and make it stick. Kana won't. I need you to do this, Casavir."

We both sighed, because honestly, I'd rather have him fighting by my side than Khelgar, who had a tendency to start more fights than he could finish.

After that I gave Sand the bad news. He complained a bit on general principle but he had clearly been expecting my visit.

"I'm sure it will be highly interesting and educational, particularly if we survive," he said.

"If we all die, I expect Grobnar will compose a suitable elegy." Only Sand could make such an expressively derisive face and still look elegant at the same time.

Chores out of the way, it was with a spirit of anticipation that I headed back down to the basement. I tapped on Ammon's door then pushed it open. I saw my jerkin and my unmentionable linens lying folded in a chair, my shoes underneath. Even my socks were folded. Something about that neat little pile set off an internal alarm. My smile became tentative. Ammon was standing by the wall as if he were deep in thought.

"Kistrel is guarding the stairway," I said. "She won't let anyone pass."

"You can speak with the spider?" He wasn't smiling back and he should have been.

"Bodo can." At his puzzled look, I added, "My beetle familiar, his name is Bodo." There was no change in his expression. "I've always been good with vermin. Maybe that's why Bishop is still hanging around." He still didn't smile and I had to suppress the urge to chatter. I took a step closer, close enough for him to touch me if he wished. He made no move to do so.

"What's the matter?" I reached out to put my arms around his neck. He caught my hands and held them still.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Oh no, you don't," I said. "Don't you dare do this to me."

"Think, girl. I did not realize the githzerai would be so useless. The sword must be forged, Jess, and we do not know how to do so. Nolaloth may not have the information we need." His eyes burned into me.

"Despite the fact that we have a common enemy, the githyanki will never give up their secrets. They will die first and let us die too. We are running out of options." He tightened his grip on my hands painfully. "We may be forced to turn to the Still Lord. He helped me find the Sword of Gith. He may have the knowledge to repair it. He may be able to obtain this knowledge where we cannot."

"The Still Lord—he's Mephasm's boss, isn't he? Do you think I will deal with such as him?"

"We may have no choice, Jess. Will you let the Sword Coast die out of squeamishness?"

I wasn't sure how a reluctance to deal with an arch-devil could be considered squeamish but then Ammon didn't always see things as normal people did.

"I…guess not. So what are you saying, you want me to save my virginity in case we need to sweeten the deal with the baatezu?"

"They have expressed an interest. This is a sacrifice you may be required to make, Jess." His face was pale and still. "I hope it does not come to that but we must be prepared."

"Damn you, Ammon."

"It is a little late for that."

I twisted my hands out of his grip and turned away. I was going to be gone for at least a month—if I returned at all. I really didn't want to sleep alone tonight. I _never_ wanted to sleep with one of the baatezu. And I'd already swilled down Zhjaeve's extremely nasty contraceptive potion. This really wasn't fair.

"Bishop's going with me, you know," I said to the open doorway. "There is no guarantee that I'll still be a virgin when I return."

"Don't be angry. I said I was sorry for this." I turned to face him.

"You don't look half as sorry as I feel."

"You have no idea how I feel."

"You're right about that," I said bitterly.

"Come," he said. I came closer and he put his arms around me. I lifted my face for a kiss but he just shook his head a little and said, "Don't test my resolve." He did let me rest my head on his shoulder though. He stroked my hair.

Damned warlock. I was pretty sure I hated him.


	11. Nolaloth's Revelations

**Chapter 11…Nolaloth's Revelations**

I'm a Knight-Captain of my own keep; I have resources. With horses and mules, grooms and a squad of Greycloaks, the journey to Nolaloth's valley was accomplished more swiftly, and with somewhat more comfort than I had expected. We even had a wagon to carry our gear part of the way before we had to cut off into the wild.

When we left the keep, only Bishop and Sand had any skill riding horses. By the time we returned, we were all reasonably proficient, even Khelgar (to his own surprise). Zhjaeve, although rather clumsy in most outdoors pursuits, had fallen in love with her horse, and when she wasn't riding, she was cooing to it and feeding it treats. In return, the horse tried to follow her around the camp and would nuzzle her shoulder and snort to make her veil flap. It was cute—bizarre but cute.

Bishop had ridden ahead to alert the keep of our return so the gates wouldn't be shut before we arrived. By the time the rest of us clattered into the courtyard, he was nowhere to be seen. He probably wanted a head start on getting drunk. That was a plan with a lot of appeal but unfortunately I had other duties.

We had set a brutal pace to reach the keep before nightfall and I knew that Zhjaeve and Sand were exhausted. The sun showed just a finger's width above the horizon and the courtyard was deep in shadow. The torches had already been lit. I wasn't sure when I had begun thinking of Crossroad Keep as home, but I certainly felt it now. My saddle-sore rear end, as well as the rest of me, was glad to be home. Firelight flickered on Kana's sleek dark hair as she waited for us in the courtyard.

I slid off my horse and one of Wolf's minions ran forward to take the reins. Unlike Zhjaeve, I was not in love with my horse and my nether regions absolutely hated my saddle. My beetle Bodo emerged from under my tunic, where he had lurked all day, and ran up onto my shoulder, waving his antennae. He was glad to be home too.

"It is good to see you back safely, Knight-Captain," Kana said and she sounded so happy and relieved that I wondered how she and Casavir had gotten along while I was gone. "Was your trip successful?"

"I hope so," I told her. Zhjaeve gave me a look. She didn't like it when I expressed anything close to a doubt, especially after all the arguments, excuse me, discussions we had already had about her interpretation of the dragon's words. "Let's all freshen up and get some dinner," I told my companions. "Afterwards, I'll need you, Zhjaeve, to meet me in the war room and we'll share what we learned with whoever needs to know. Sand, would you make sure Aldanon is informed?" That was code for _tell Harcourt to ensure the sage shows up on time_. Aldanon seemed to live in his own little plane and sometimes had difficulty grasping the urgency of the rest of us. That we were in the midst of a war occasionally slipped his notice.

"Your whim is my command, Knight-Captain," Sand said with weary sarcasm.

"Glad to hear it," I said. "Kana, would you and Casavir give me a report on the keep's status before dinner?"

"Certainly, Knight-Captain," she said, looking prepared to do so at that very moment but I was already heading for the nearest privy to deal with a matter of some urgency. Gods, I hated traveling. We hadn't stopped all day except to give the horses a breather.

I emerged some moments later (considerably relieved) to find Ammon standing in the corridor, arms crossed over his chest. I was tired and hungry and my clothes stank. I needed to find out what had been happening in my absence. My best boots were holed with acid burns and my temper was looking for any excuse to show itself. Ammon and I had not exactly parted on good terms and Nolaloth's little revelations had not improved the situation. I gave him a warning scowl.

Bodo's claws pricked my shoulder and then he hit the ground with a little thud and scuttled off into the shadows. Smart beetle.

"Did Nolaloth tell you how to forge the shards?" Ammon asked. No 'hi, how are you, how was your trip?' and no 'glad to see you survived all the stinking dragons'. Kana, Nasher's hand-picked officer, had greeted me with a lot more warmth. My scowl deepened.

"There will be a briefing after dinner," I said brusquely. He moved to block me from passing. I felt my eyes start to narrow. "You know, Jerro," I said. "I doubt there is a woman in the Realms who appreciates being accosted outside the privy. I would think a man of your vast experience would be aware of that fact."

"Did you learn how to forge the shards?" he growled. I guess he didn't like my answer the first time he asked.

"There will be a briefing after dinner," I growled back. As I pushed past him, he grabbed me by the front of my tunic and pulled me to face him. I appreciate being handled like an unruly toddler about as well as the next gal but I showed remarkable restraint. Instead of blasting him to oblivion, I just gave him a look and said, "I don't have time for this. Go wait with the others."

"This is _important_, Jess. Stop being childish and tell me now."

Childish? Me? How dare he? His grip tightened around his fistful of my tunic. His avid and intent eyes bored down into me and my irritation erupted.

"Nolaloth was so deep into madness that I could hardly get anything out of him." I glared up at Ammon. "I was lucky to get away with my life and no thanks to you. I think your little betrayal was the straw that broke the dragon's back, or rather, his mind. What in the _hells_ were you thinking when you told him you were from Illefarn and had come to restore him back to life?"

"I needed information that only he could give me."

"So that made it acceptable to tell those outrageous and pointless lies? He hated the King of Shadows, Ammon. You didn't need to give him false hope and then snatch it away. He would have helped you if you had been honest with him."

"You are wrong. He would not. Are you naive enough to believe there was ever any spark of altruism in the wyrm? The only reason he fought the King of Shadows was for the treasure he was promised. He was desperate to be restored to life, Jess. He wanted to be lied to; he practically forced it upon me."

I just shook my head.

"There are things you do not do."

"Indeed. I do not share your gift for self-deception. I suppose when the Sword Coast is a lifeless husk, you can console yourself that at least you had never stooped to lying to a mercenary and vengeful spirit."

"That's your answer to everything, isn't it? Doesn't that same old justification get a little thin after awhile? You know, maybe, just maybe you don't have to trick or slaughter every single being that crosses your path. Sometimes there are other options."

His eyes slid away from mine. Perhaps he, too, was thinking about Shandra. Or maybe he was thinking about some of the other people he'd killed because they got in his way. I was irritated at myself for getting drawn into this futile argument. What was done was done and couldn't be undone.

"I…have never shirked responsibility for my actions. I will be paying for what I have done for millennia after my death. There is a special place in the hells for those like me."

I bit off the sarcastic remarks that leapt to mind (with difficulty) and just shook my head.

"I've got people waiting on me. I'll see you after dinner in the war room."

He did not let go of me; in fact, he gave me a little shake.

"You may go when you answer my question."

I had started out being irked by Ammon and his presumption. I had wondered how he would feel to be served with a dish of his own evasions and mysteries. Now I was really angry.

"You want an answer? Well here it is: maybe. I hope you're taking notes. Now get your hands off me and let me pass."

He _still_ didn't let me go. His eyes burned into me.

"No doubt you think you are being amusing, but 'maybe' is no answer," he said through gritted teeth.

"It's the one you're going to get." He wasn't expecting the shove I gave him and it knocked him back a step. The look he gave me in return was so frightening that I spat out the words of a spell. My left hand glowed faintly green and I held it out before me.

"Back off," I said. I stared him down with more confidence than I actually felt. Tarmas had taught me the Ghoul's Touch a lifetime ago in West Harbor. It was supposed to paralyze your opponent. I had never actually used it successfully in real combat but I kept thinking I might one day.

But we weren't really fighting—were we?

"Jess," he said in a milder voice, as if he was wondering the same thing. There would have been more but at that moment, Casavir came around the corner and he also said my name. His surprise quickly changed to suspicion and concern. Casavir's hand went to his hip but luckily he wasn't wearing his weapon belt.

"What is wrong?" he asked. I sighed and let the spell fizzle away. My fingers had turned icy. I shook out my hand and wiped it on my pants leg.

"Nothing," I said. As I followed Casavir to the war room where Kana waited, I imagined I could still feel Ammon's eyes burning into my back.

There had been no new demands (or gifts) from Lord Nasher while I was gone. A few zombies had wandered along the south road and had been killed by a Greycloak patrol. Elanee had gone out to investigate tales that a large group of lizard folk had been spotted west of the keep. She had not returned yet but Kana didn't expect her back for another few days. And then there were the bandits. I learned the cause of the slight coolness between Casavir and Kana. Over Kana's objections, Casavir had dispatched a squad of Greycloaks to capture the bandits attacking one of the villages that neighbored the keep. Several of our soldiers had been injured during the raid, one seriously.

"The halfling village was attacked because our Greycloak patrols drove the bandits away from the coast road," Casavir said, sounding as if he had already made this argument many times before. "They asked us for aid and it was our duty to provide it."

"Our duty is to protect the keep and the Knight-Captain's lands," Kana said doggedly. "We cannot strip the keep of defenses for any stranger who asks. For all we knew, those halflings were imposters, luring our Greycloaks away from the keep at a time when our numbers were already lower than usual."

"They spoke the truth," Casavir said quietly.

Really, they both had good points but arguing them now was pointless. Casavir had been in charge and the decision—and responsibility for that decision—had been his. I'm not sure what I would have done in his place. I suppose it would have depended on the impression the halflings made on me, and honestly, even if I had been there, I would have relied upon Casavir's judgment. I said so as tactfully as I could, not that tact is my particular strong suit, but it seemed to satisfy them well enough.

Seeing the two dark heads bent together in discussion, I wondered (not for the first time) why Casavir showed no signs of attraction to Kana. You would have thought she was just his type. Of course, he hadn't seemed too interested in Katriona either despite the fact that his former second-in-command was clearly infatuated with him. Maybe he wasn't attracted to warrior women.

Or maybe he wasn't attracted to women who showed any interest in him 'that way'. I sighed. Casavir's love life was at least as screwed up as mine was.

I wouldn't have had time for the hot bath I so desperately needed before dinner even if I hadn't been delayed by Ammon, but that didn't stop my surge of resentment as I made do by washing off the worst of the travel dirt with the cold bowl of water in my room.

Unless we are trying to impress visitors, meals are casual at Crossroad Keep. Bowls of food had already been set out and were being passed around family style when I slid into my seat at the head of the table. Khelgar was already stuffing his face, still in his travel-stained clothes.

"Are you in a hurry?" I asked him. "Got a date?" He grinned and mimed hoisting a tankard. Bishop hadn't shown up so I figured he was drinking his dinner. Or possibly he was in the back room of the Den, dealing with an abstinence of another sort. Not my problem, thank the gods.

I also ate quickly, my thoughts running fruitlessly in many different directions. Sand entertained the table with highly colored tales of our journey and particularly of our battles against the dragons in Nolaloth's Valley. Khelgar jumped in to amplify or contradict as he felt was needed. Aldanon and Casavir interjected questions when they could fit in a word. Ammon had nothing to say until he learned that the crystal heart had been destroyed.

"Am I to understand that you severed Nolaloth's connection to this plane?" he asked, giving me a look that might have made me quail if I hadn't already been so irritated by him.

"Know that we have laid his spirit to rest as he requested," Zhjaeve said.

"He had knowledge possessed by no other," Ammon said, turning his angry eyes on her. She gave him a very bland look. I wondered if she knew how annoying he found her. I thought she probably did.

"We will discuss this later," I said before he could let loose with a tirade. He glanced at me and then turned his attention to his plate, giving his slice of meat a vicious stab with his knife.

Khelgar asked to be excused from the meeting after dinner and I waved him away. Bishop didn't show up, not that we needed him either. I would have invited Sir Nevalle but apparently he was off somewhere on Nasher's business, or perhaps his own. Presumably he had a life away from court although I couldn't recall him ever speaking of anything personal.

Zhjaeve sat by my side at the big table in the war room and Ammon sat at the far end of the table opposite me. Aldanon, Casavir, Kana, Grobnar, Sand, Neeshka and Qara all took their seats and waited for me to start.

The meeting was blessedly short for the dragon had told us little that seemed of much use.

"Know that the Blade of Gith must be made whole at the place where it was broken," Zhjaeve said.

"We must return to West Harbor," I translated. Casavir gave me a grave look. I thought I had spoken emotionlessly but he had gone with me to West Harbor to bring Retta Starling news of her son Lorne's death. I didn't know how many of my friends had escaped the village before it was claimed by the King of Shadows. We were already too late to save my home. I did not want to see what had become of it and now I was required to do so.

"How?" Neeshka asked. "I thought we couldn't travel through the Mere anymore." It was unfortunate that Elanee hadn't returned, for she might know more about the spread of the shadow.

"We will travel through the Song Portal," Zhjaeve said. Aldanon stirred and said something to Sand.

"We get to go back to Arvahn?" Grobnar asked. "Oh, good, there was something I wished to examine in the Gem Mines. And I hoped to get some sketches of the statues…"

"We won't be sight-seeing, Grobnar," Neeshka said, rolling her eyes. "So okay, we go to this swamp village of yours. Do you know where the sword was broken? Do you have to be in the exact spot or what? Is there a marker?"

Did she think we swamp farmers had erected an obelisk? 'Here Be the Spot Where the King of Shadows Busted That Warlock's Fancy Sword.'

"We must stand in the exact location," Zhjaeve said.

"The place is marked by power," Ammon said impatiently. "We will find it easily."

"And then what?" Neeshka asked.

"The blade will be restored by an act of will," Zhjaeve said.

"An act of will?" Qara asked. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

"Know that the will of the Kalach-Cha will bring new life to the Sword of Gith."

"Yes, you said that," Qara said. "But what does Jess have to do? Is this a spell of some sort? Does she recite the True Name of the sword? What?"

I kind of hated that Qara, although in a snottier tone than I probably would have used, raised the exact same questions I had asked Zhjaeve over and over. Qara, despite her instinctive grasp of magic, looked as baffled as I felt. This did not reassure me in the least.

"The Kalach-Cha will hold the shards of the sword and by her will, it shall be made whole," Zhjaeve said. Although she showed no impatience it was clear that she was somewhat puzzled by our lack of understanding when the matter was so simple. I glanced at Ammon, but instead of the wrath I expected, his look was thoughtful.

I held out my hand to stop any more questions.

"We will rest a couple of days and then plan our journey to West Harbor," I said. Maybe by then my will would figure something out and would let the rest of me know what I had to do.


	12. Bound Together

**Chapter 12…Bound Together**

"You are too good to me, Delma," I told my squire when I returned to my room to find she had just finished filling the big tub with hot water. The maids who were helping her giggled and left but Delma remained to help me wash my hair. Then she tenderly wrapped my wet hair in a towel so I wouldn't 'catch a chill'. If she had known the austere conditions I had grown up with in Daeghun's household, she would have realized that no chill could catch me. I hadn't been aware that bath water was commonly heated until I'd moved to Neverwinter.

"I've been dreaming of this for days," I admitted, sinking down into the scented water.

"Enjoy yourself then," Delma said with a laugh. She threw another log in the fireplace and gave the fire a good stir before she left me to sodden bliss.

Sometime later, an imperious rap at the door roused me from my drowsy contentment. According to Sir Nevalle, now that I was a member of the Nine and the Knight-Captain of Crossroad Keep, it was my duty to be gracious at all times. So I didn't curse or lob a fireball through the door.

Besides, the hot bath was doing a _lot _to improve my mood.

"Unless you are bringing hot water or fresh towels, go away," I hollered graciously. The door opened and Ammon came inside. He didn't look angry anymore. If anything, his expression seemed a bit smug.

"Ack!" I sank deeper into the water. "Go far, far away," I told him. I thought about getting angry at him again but that seemed like a lot of work. He closed and then barred the door. Oh, dear. Instead of towels, he was armed with a bottle of wine and a couple of clay mugs.

"I forget what the penalty is for disobeying a direct order from the Knight-Captain," I said. "I'll have to ask Kana. I expect it involves loss of limb or maybe a public caning."

"I am not one of your lackeys," he said calmly. I watched with suspicion as he set down his offering on the three-legged table by the fireplace. He opened the bottle and filled the mugs.

"Is the King of Shadows outside the gate?" I asked. "Are we celebrating our impending demise?"

"Not yet," he said. His lips didn't actually move but it looked like he was considering a smile.

"Then why are you disturbing me?"

"I thought I would allow you the opportunity to apologize for your attack on me earlier today."

"_My_ attack on _you_? _I_ should apologize to _you_?" I snorted. "'No doubt you think you are being amusing'," I said in the lowest, roughest register my voice would reach. I hadn't done enough screaming in my life to creditably imitate him. Not yet, anyway.

He handed me a mug. I took it but I scowled. "And you're peeking!" I added when I realized he was looking down into the tub. He took the other mug and sat in my favorite chair, stretching out his legs and looking quite at home.

"You turned your magic against me," he said.

"You put your hands on me first."

"I did not know that was prohibited."

I didn't have an answer to that so I took a sip from my mug. There was something utterly decadent about soaking in a hot steamy tub and drinking wine. The cheerfully burning fire, the wine and the warm water all invited me to relax. Ammon's eyes held a different invitation. It seemed safer to ignore him as best I could.

"So," I said. "From your chipper demeanor, I take it you are satisfied that we now know how to mend the Blade of Gith."

"You are not?"

"Oh, I don't know, doesn't this 'look to the source of the shadow' talk seem just a trifle vague to you? I was hoping for something closer to actual instructions." He shrugged.

"Zhjaeve is a mystic. What may seem vague to us is as clear as crystal to her. She knows what to do. I could see it in her eyes."

"So you trust her."

"In this, I feel we can trust her, yes."

I made a noncommittal noise in response. I hated to admit it but Ammon's apparent lack of concern gave me the hope that Zhjaeve's calm pronouncements did not. If _he_ was convinced, why should _I_ continue to doubt? Until now, I'd been concerned that we were no better off than we'd been before we trekked to Nolaloth's valley. I'd really expected Ammon to have a fit when he heard how little the dragon had told us. I'd been expecting him to start pressuring me to make a deal with the Still Lord. Instead, here he was with wine and (at a guess) seduction on his mind.

"Well, that's good to hear," I said at last. The bath water was starting to cool or maybe I was just getting tired of being trapped in the tub. "Thanks for the wine but I am certainly not apologizing to you. In fact, I will be accepting apologies in the morning, should your own conscience unexpectedly awaken. You are dismissed." He continued to look at me so I showed him my wrinkled fingertips. "I'm ready to get out of the tub. Go away."

Instead of leaving, he brought me a towel from the stack by the hearth.

"Get a good eyeful?" I grumbled but I took the towel. It was nice and warm.

"I did," he said and now his lips had definitely turned up, if not in a smile, at least in a smirk.

"Humph. Well, at least you could pretend you have some decency and turn your back."

When he turned, I got out with a splash. He walked over to my bed and stared down at the nightgown Delma had laid out for me. It was spread across the covers demurely in all its lace-trimmed glory.

"Is this what you sleep in?" he asked incredulously, picking it up and running the silk across his palm. "I thought the succubus was being facetious when she showed up in something similar." My hair was already reasonably dry and I dried the rest of my body as quickly as possible and then wrapped up in the towel. I snatched my nightgown out of his hand and retired behind the screen in the back of the room.

"Speak to Delma if you don't like it," I said, my voice a bit muffled as I pulled the gown over my head. "This is not my taste in attire, believe me."

"I do believe you," he said. "But I like it well enough." And he had the nerve to chuckle. I jammed my arms into the sleeves of my dressing gown and pulled the belt tight. I walked to the little table and refilled my mug. I plopped down in my favorite chair before he could claim it and put my bare feet on the warm, toasty hearth. By the gods, it felt good to be out of my boots.

"I asked you to leave and you're still here," I said, looking at Ammon through my lashes. He emptied the bottle into his mug and sat in the other chair. "You must want something rather badly." His head tilted toward me.

"Yes. I do."

"Really? You may not be one of my lackeys or owe me a debt of loyalty but I still might consider trying to help you. Do you need a wand? Summoning ingredients? A voucher signed? Permission to kill Grobnar?"

"I had something different in mind."

And I thought I knew what. Of course, if I was wrong, the humiliation would be intense.

"I see. Well, tell me, Ammon, what is the going rate for virginity these days? Excuse me, for a _hero's_ virginity?"

"It is a seller's market, of course." His eyes met mine and I flushed. The heat I felt was probably left over from the bath. No doubt. "I expect you could get whatever you asked," he said. At my raised brows, he added, "Within reason, of course."

"Is that so? What did you get for yours, I wonder?"

For a moment I thought he would not answer, but then he gave a snort of bitter laughter and said, "My Haven."

"You're kidding."

"I do not kid. It is a pocket plane, of sorts, and I was given the power to gate myself there at will. The Haven changed over time, as I grew in knowledge and ability. Only much later did I add the portal that you entered, with its challenges and guardians." He gave me one of his unreadable looks. "In hindsight, I can see that it was a mistake to tie my Haven to the Material Plane but at the time, my reasons for doing so seemed logical enough."

"All you did was sleep with one of the baatezu and they gave you your own plane," I said, amazed. "You must have really impressed them." And then my naughty little mind began to speculate on what exactly he had done to make such an impression. Hatsou, the succubus, had hinted that Ammon was uncommonly skilled. I wasn't sure what that meant but it sounded…intriguing.

He shrugged.

"I am a warlock. I was born under a family curse. Scarcity has a value."

"Yes, but…your own plane?"

"It is an extremely minor demiplane."

"Okay, your own minor demiplane, but _still_." I leaned forward. "Would they give _me_ one?"

"You never know until you ask. Of course," he said, leaning back and tenting his fingers over his lean belly, "I could give you access to my Haven, if you asked it of me. There would not be so many…strings…attached."

"I don't want _any_ strings attached."

"Ah, but there are always strings, or perhaps I should say expectations—stated or unstated. No relationship, no matter how fleeting, can exist without them. To deny this is to lie. Were we to sleep together, things would change between us. We should be clear about this, yes?"

"I suppose."

"We are already bound together by the Ritual of Purification. Only we can destroy the King of Shadows and only together can we do so. It is a commitment we have no choice but to honor. Neither one of us can simply walk away from the other until either he is destroyed or we are, no matter what else happens between us."

I felt my lip twitch up a little.

"Are you trying to seduce me or scare me off, Ammon?" He gave me a hard look from under his heavy brows.

"A bit of both, I suppose. I must tell you that you could make a better choice, Jess."

Well, I knew that. He was far too old for me, and in much more than years. I had seen him show regret but never compassion. He was neither gentle nor kind. He might have been different once, if Shandra and Aldanon's memories were accurate, but I wondered. Did anyone change that much or had he just been adept at hiding what he was?

He seemed to think that most people were fools who deserved their fate, and yet he had made almost unimaginable sacrifices to save them. He had many, many enemies, both here and in the Lower Planes and I was already beginning to draw their attention, it seemed. As if I didn't have enough enemies of my own.

Getting closer to Ammon was a dangerous proposition. That he tempted me spoke volumes to my character, or lack of such.

"Are you going to advise me again to sleep with Casavir?"

He stood and looked down at me. I tried to appear relaxed despite my quickened breathing. He held his hand out to me. My face burned but my fingers felt icy when I gave him my hand. He pulled me to my feet.

"No," he said. "I do not wish you to do so." The distance between us could be crossed with one step yet it felt immense.

"Are you going to bargain me off to the Still Lord or any other devil or demon?" I asked. His fingers tightened.

"No." The look he gave me was searching indeed. As was the look I gave him, no doubt. I took a half step closer and drew his hand down to my hip. His other hand brushed my waist.

"Are you going to ruin me for all other men?" I breathed. His eyes gleamed. He pulled me in to close the gap between us.

"I am certainly going to try."

And so, with an invocation of unnatural darkness shrouding the corridor outside my door against those who might try to interrupt us, he did.


	13. Off to the Ruins

**Chapter 13…Off to the Ruins**

The fire had long burned down to coals and the lamp I had left burning on the nightstand flickered. Soon it would smoke. I had been asleep or close to it but Ammon's movement roused me. He had turned on his side and pushed back the covers. I gave a couple of slow blinks and turned on my side as well to meet his gaze. I couldn't help but smile.

"You look pleased with yourself," he said. His eyes were shadowed by the dim light. I put my arm around his waist in a little surge of possessiveness.

"I am terribly, terribly pleased." I don't know that I was pleased with myself, but pleased with him—oh, yes, indeed I was. A languid kiss sealed that thought. "I guess I'm a woman now."

He snorted.

"Do you feel you've achieved an increase in wisdom and maturity?" he asked and he gave me an ironic look. His hand came to rest lightly on my bare hip.

"Hmm," I said. I couldn't say that I did. Maybe it was like the first time I killed a man. That, too, is supposed to be a rite of passage of sorts. And it changes you, but at the time, it is not so clear how or why. And later, after you have killed again and again, the significance of the first time fades. And yet the significance was there, even if you can no longer hold it or feel it. It was there.

"I feel…" I started and then I sighed. How did I feel? Was I happy? I supposed so. I was definitely contented, satisfied and, well, frankly I was rather sore. I rubbed my chin against his beard and then took another kiss.

"I should go," he said.

"Why?"

"You won't want your maid to find me here." I turned to look at the narrow window. It was still far from dawn.

"It's the middle of the night," I said. "Besides, I'm pretty sure she won't try to get past your darkness spell."

"I dispelled it." He gave me a rather sheepish look, which sat oddly on his harsh features. "That was a mistake," he said. "I did not want another interruption but my action was ill-judged."

"I didn't want another interruption either," I said. I stroked his back. It felt so good to be able to touch him as much as I wished. His skin was deliciously warm.

"Yes, but I called undue attention to us. I apologize for that."

"I don't care," I said.

"Then you haven't thought it through."

"Half the keep already thinks we're sleeping together. Bishop beat the crap out of me for it in the practice yard back before we went to see the dead dragon." I flapped my hand at Ammon's look of displeasure. "He said it was for my own good, ha ha, but the point is that he's got it out of his system. Who else is going to care? Do you think Casavir is going to call you out or something? He won't." Ammon didn't look reassured. "Surely you're not worried about my father. He doesn't care what I do, if he even notices."

"It is not your companions I am concerned about," he said. "It's Lord Nasher's reaction."

"He's a long way away," I said a little doubtfully.

"And you think Sir Nevalle or your Officer Kana can't write a message? Dispatches are sent to Neverwinter twice a ten-day."

"Why would they waste his time with barracks gossip?"

"Do not be naïve, Jess, gossip is the meat that the nobles at court feed upon. I've managed to stay out of Nasher's view so far. I am thought to be dead and because I am still of use, he pretends to believe it so. If my name is publicly brought to Nasher's attention, particularly if our names are linked together—well, that would be awkward, to say the least."

Awkward, as in how long would it take for those at Nasher's court to realize that the mysterious warlock who murdered some of his nobles for their shard was none other than their own former court mage. And he had left a room full of witnesses alive at the Moonstone Mask, of all places. I'd already had enough of courtrooms and trials to last a lifetime and I had been innocent of the crimes for which I'd been accused. Ammon was guilty. Yes, that could become awkward indeed.

"Then to the hells with him and his court too. If Nasher wants his title and his rotten old keep back, he can have them with my compliments," I said. "This place is sucking me dry."

"No." He gripped my shoulder painfully. "We need this keep, Jess. It can't be long before the King of Shadows gathers his undead and moves north. How long do you think Fort Locke or Highcliff can stand against him? It will be up to us to keep him out of Neverwinter."

"Nasher knows that, as well as you do," I said. I smothered a yawn. "Why do you think he gave me this place? He won't abandon the keep or strip it of its defenses." I thought a moment. "He might give the command to Sir Nevalle, though, if he decides we've disgraced him. As far as I'm concerned, that would be wonderful. Let Sir Nevalle handle some of the headaches around here for awhile. He'd be better than me, most likely."

"Have you lost your wits?"

If this was pillow talk, I wasn't thinking much of it.

"Yes," I said. I nuzzled in closer and pressed my lips against his neck. I loved the way he smelled. His scent didn't remind me of anything, it was just—him. "I've lost my wits. Where could they be? They can't have wandered far." After a few moments of exploration, I said, "Oh, look. I think I've found the root of the problem."

His expression was somewhere between a laugh and a frown.

"I knew this would be a mistake," he said. "You are far too young." But his frown didn't make it to his eyes. And he wasn't reaching for his clothes. His tattoos cast a warm light across the bedcovers. I could feel his power awaken and lick across my skin and there was other evidence to suggest that he wasn't exactly wallowing in regret.

"It's not a mistake."

"Time will tell," he said. His hand slid down my hip and he pulled me in closer. "But tell me something, Jess."

"Hmm?" I hated to admit it but I really was losing my wits. At any rate I was having a hard time focusing my thoughts. Like his body, his power pressed against me and where moments before I had been feeling sleepy and sore, now I felt…energized.

"Does that beetle familiar of yours sleep in the bed with you?"

I snickered. It didn't sound like Ammon relished the thought of sharing the pillow with a giant bug.

"Bodo? No, I think he's afraid of getting rolled on and crushed," I said. Speaking of which…oh, my. My wits were wandering further and further but I added a little breathlessly, "But you might want to shake your boots out real well before you put them back on. Bodo likes to burrow into warm enclosed places."

"Don't we all," Ammon murmured.

* * *

I was less than thrilled to find myself back on a horse so soon after our return from Nolaloth's Valley, but there I was, riding towards the ruins. Of course, before we even got back on the road, there had been the usual tiresome amount of argument and discussion that passed for planning at Crossroad Keep. Ammon was the main culprit. For one thing, he had been in favor of an immediate departure. You can rest on the road, he'd told me. You're young, you're healthy, and we're in a hurry.

None of the romantic stories I've read or songs I've heard mention how frequently the desire to throttle your lover pops up.

He also had a lot of unnecessary input on who should go with us. The decision was mine, after all, and one that I, with my superior knowledge of my companion's strengths and weaknesses, was surely more capable of making than he was.

He seemed to take it for granted that he would be coming with me. Well—I didn't disagree. That wasn't the problem.

"If I have to travel with that treacherous cur, I will end up killing him," he said of Bishop.

"What makes you so sure he is treacherous?" I didn't argue the cur epithet but I met his glare with one of my own. "He has been with me longer than you have and he hasn't left me yet."

"You're the one who told me you wouldn't sleep with him because you were afraid to be alone with him."

I opened my mouth, ready to blast.

"On second thought," he added, "We could certainly use a scout and skilled hunter. By all means, let him come along." I gave him a look which he returned with suspicious blandness. Luckily I already knew how to reach the ruins of Arvahn and some of the Greycloaks were excellent hunters. I didn't really need to sacrifice Bishop to Ammon's wretched temper.

He didn't want Grobnar to come, either, even though I knew it would break the bard's heart to be left behind again. And I was the one who had to tell him.

"Once we enter the blighted mere, we will need to move quickly. The gnome will only slow us down."

"He can move pretty quickly on those short little legs. You'd be surprised," I said, but I was arguing only as a matter of form.

"And you can guarantee he won't wander off at the inopportune moment?" Of course I couldn't. He was Grobnar, after all. He couldn't help it.

But our biggest argument was about Casavir.

"If something happens to us, Casavir needs to remain here to command the keep," I said.

"If something happens to us, it won't matter who is in command. The keep will be overrun."

"But…"

"You cannot keep him safe here, no matter how much you would like to do so. There is no safety now for any of us."

"Mystra's breath, I'm not trying to keep him _safe_. He can take care of himself. I just think…"

"Be realistic, Jess. West Harbor has fallen to the King of Shadows. We will likely be facing some of his strongest servants. We need the paladin."

"We'll have Zhjaeve." Ammon gave me a hard look which I returned redoubled. "She is a powerful cleric."

"We are required to bring the githzerai for her knowledge but do not fool yourself, there are times when she will be a liability. I do not deny that she means well," he said a little sourly. "But she has little knowledge of this plane and the dangers we face. She is no warrior. You cannot count on her for your protection. More likely, you will be risking yourself to protect her." Whereas Casavir could be counted on to risk himself, even sacrifice himself, to protect us. And I knew Ammon realized that in his calculating way.

"You and Casavir hate each other."

"Our feelings are irrelevant," he said, looking down his nose at me.

"So you say," I muttered. If he believed that, he knew little about the dynamics of traveling in a small group. I'd traveled with men who didn't get along. It was hellish for everyone.

Also, it fretted me that Elanee had still not returned to the keep. What in the Nine Hells could be taking her so long?

"There is nothing you can do," was Ammon's dispassionate reply. "She will return if she is able. We do not have time to wait."

So in the end, it was Zhjaeve, Ammon, Casavir and I, along with a handful of Greycloaks, who headed out to the Song Portal in the ruins of Arvahn. I cornered Bishop after dinner, the night before we left the keep.

"Can you track down Elanee and find out if she is okay?" I asked. He looked me up and down before deigning to answer.

"I could. Why should I?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said, irritated even though I had certainly expected something of the sort. "Perhaps because, once Zhjaeve and Casavir are gone, she's the only healer anywhere nearby? Accidents happen, you know." I looked him up and down in return, trying to match his sneer. "Even to smart-ass rangers."

"Is that so?" He seemed to find something funny.

"It's your smart ass. Risk it if you choose."

"Make it worth my while." His eyes challenged me.

"I'm already paying you, Bishop. But if you want a little extra, I'll sign a voucher for any reasonable expenses." He took a step closer, still smiling a bit, his gaze fixed on my face.

"I don't want a _voucher_, Knight-Captain." His hand came forward and I thought he was going to grab me by the front of my tunic. Instead, he toyed with the tie that held it closed. His knuckles brushed against my bare collarbone.

"I left my coin purse in my room." I could see a spark of humor in his eyes and that made me unsure if I should be amused or annoyed.

"Perhaps we should go get it," he said. He ran his fingers up my throat in a casual caress. I pushed his hand away. Annoyed was winning out.

"You must think I'm a fool." He laughed.

"The signs are there," he said.

"Are you going to help me or not?"

"I might, if I feel like it." He walked away.

I knew I'd get no more out of him, but I thought he would do it, out of boredom if for no other reason.

* * *

"The countryside is very beautiful." Zhjaeve had pulled her horse up beside mine. Her eyes were sparkling, and her veil whipped in the breeze. I don't know why she continued to wear the thing. It would have driven me mad to have something flapping around my face. I didn't think our Greycloaks would be shocked to see a githzerai's features and the rest of us had seen plenty of unveiled githyanki in our time. What I'd seen of her didn't look so different. The one time I had suggested she take it off, she just shook her head, and the resulting lengthy silence had made me realize I had maybe offended her in some way. It just seemed bizarre to me that she had no problem showing off her bare belly but her face was taboo.

I looked around, pulled out of my own funk by her enthusiasm.

"Yes, it is nice," I said, looking out over the rolling hills. "West Harbor is very different, as you may recall."

"Do you miss your home?"

"I…don't know." The sparkle had gone out of her eyes and now they were grave as they met mine. "It is interesting, being in other places and meeting new people. West Harbor was very small, you know, and I knew everyone there. Even the strangers, like Galen the traveling merchant, weren't really strangers. Sometimes that is bad, knowing everyone and having everyone know you—or thinking that they do."

"It is hard to change in a place like that," she said. I smiled and nodded my head. That was it exactly.

We rode on in silence for awhile. One of the Greycloaks had ridden ahead to find a place for us to camp for the night. There was still no sign of his return but we had hours of daylight yet ahead of us. My rear end cursed the sun and the saddle.

"But you miss the people of your village," Zhjaeve said, a lilt of a question in her voice.

"Yes," I finally said. I looked up into the cloudless blue sky. At the moment, there was not even a bird to be seen. "People may joke about living in a stinking swamp, but it is very alive there. Life is all around you, pressing in—too much sometimes, with all the sounds and the smells and the trees blocking out the sun—but…" I sighed. "I don't know what I'm trying to say," I admitted.

"You fear what we will find there." I sighed again.

"Yes," I said. "I fear it. If the King of Shadows has stolen all the life from the Mere, what will it be now? Elanee tried to warn me but I didn't really understand. I could face simple destruction, like we saw when we were trying to complete the Ritual of Purification."

My head turned back for a moment to where Ammon rode, out of earshot. Him and his damned demons. I knew at some level he deeply resented me for invading his Haven and allowing them to be freed, thus gutting him of so much of his power. He didn't dwell on his anger (as far as I knew) but it was there. Well, I cared for him and the gods knew that I lusted for him but at some level, I also deeply resented him for allowing his demons to devastate my home. And no matter what else happened between us, that would always be there too.

"My people are strong; they know how to recover from disaster," I told Zhjaeve. "But if the life itself is gone from the land, what could be left? How could we recover from that?"


	14. A Tryst of Sorts

**Chapter 14…A Tryst of Sorts**

Although the rest of us were riding whatever horse the stable master assigned us, Ammon had acquired his own mount, a scarred chestnut gelding every bit as lean, ill-tempered, and tireless as he was. Even my inexpert eyes could tell he was an excellent rider. That surprised me for some reason. I was less surprised by his impatience with our rate of travel. I got tired of the hissed arguments at every rest stop long before he did but he would have ridden us all into exhaustion every single day if I had let him. From an early age, Daeghun had drilled into me the fact that fatigue was an implacable foe, the cause of the death of more travelers than beasts and bandits combined.

Beasts and bandits did not show themselves. I attributed this mostly to the fact that we moved with swift purposefulness and were clearly armed to the teeth. It probably didn't hurt that I wore my conspicuous Neverwinter Nine surcoat, at least while we stayed on the commonly used roads and paths. The first morning I wore it Ammon looked around then made a sarcastic query about standard bearers and drummers that I pretended not to hear.

The first few days on the road, Ammon coached me in horsemanship, since I was the worst in the group. After that, he tended to ride ahead with the scouts, falling back from time to time to harass the rest of us along. One of the advantages of traveling in a larger group is that a couple of the Greycloaks on the fastest horses would set up camp while the rest of us stragglers were catching up. By the time we arrived, firewood was gathered, the cook fire was lit and the pickets for the horses were set up. All we had to do was fall out of the saddle and lay out our bedrolls. Compared to my earlier travels, this was a life of ease.

"Where did you learn to ride so well?" I asked Ammon one evening. Some of the Greycloaks were setting up tents since the clouds and the breeze promised rain, but the rest of us ate supper. Ammon, Zhjaeve, Casavir and I sat in the grass under a large tree. Bodo was off scavenging. The other Greycloaks had retreated to the far side of the camp to show the four of us the respect they apparently thought we deserved. This compulsion to separate by rank still struck me as odd but it seemed to make the soldiers more comfortable to treat me like a noble.

Or maybe it was easier for them to complain about us when we were out of earshot.

I sat cross-legged on the ground and used a big chunk of pan bread to mop up the juices from my stew. I was voraciously hungry but I ate slowly because I wasn't sure there was enough in the pot for everyone to have seconds. If we had passed a farm, we could have bought fresh foodstuff to supplement our supplies, but today we had ridden through wild country.

"My father had me on horseback before I could walk," Ammon answered. I gave him an inquiring look. I couldn't recall him ever mentioning either of his parents. "He was known for his horses," he added. He stared off into the hills with a brooding expression.

"Are horses raised on farms? Was your father a horse farmer?" Zhjaeve asked.

"No," he said shortly.

"Kalnon Jerro was a knight of Neverwinter," Casavir said. We all turned to him in surprise.

"You could not have known my father," Ammon said, his voice cold. "He died before you were born, most likely."

"I know of him. He was said to be a valiant and righteous man."

"That he was." Ammon's tone did not invite further comment.

The two men exchanged an unfriendly look. There had been a bit of unpleasantness earlier. Casavir had come upon us down by the stream. He carried a bucket, so presumably he wanted water to wash or shave. Ammon and I hadn't been doing anything lascivious—the gods knew there wasn't enough privacy for such in the camp, even if I hadn't been tired to the bone. All I had been doing was sitting on the bank with my bare feet in the icy water, leaning against Ammon's shoulder. We weren't even holding hands or anything sappy like that but Casavir reddened as if he had been scalded. He turned and left without even stopping to fill his bucket and all during supper he wouldn't meet my eye.

It made me feel oddly embarrassed, like I had been caught doing something shameful. When I asked Ammon what he thought was wrong, he just lifted his brows like I was a fool.

Despite what several of my friends seemed to think, Casavir had never made a move of any kind to show that he wanted a, well, a romance. I wasn't blind; there was a current of attraction between us. But that didn't mean much. Hells, there was a current of attraction between Bishop and me, but I certainly didn't have the slightest intention of _ever_ having a relationship with him beyond our loose sniping business arrangement. In fact, I'd often suspected Bishop's flirtations would disappear in a hurry if I ever showed any signs of reciprocating. In the same way, I think Casavir allowed himself to yearn after me a little (if that's what he did) because I was safely uninterested.

So I didn't really understand what was bothering him—other than the fact that he loathed Ammon.

"Your father died a hero's death," Casavir said.

"He rode out against overwhelming odds and was slaughtered with all his men," Ammon said. "Does that appeal to you, paladin? From what I've been told, I suspect it might."

"Sometimes the gods require…"

"It was shame that killed my father, not some whim of the gods."

"I do not understand. Can one die of shame in this plane?" Zhjaeve asked.

"It is as sharp a blade as any sword," was his answer. "He took his shame to the battlefield and it killed him. Ask the paladin how that is done, if you are curious, githzerai."

Casavir still held his bowl in one large hand but he didn't eat. He seemed almost frozen in place for a moment. The look he gave me was close to anger and I wasn't sure why. Unless he thought I'd been discussing him with Ammon, which was unfair. With Katriona (who worried over him obsessively) drilling the Greycloaks at the keep, did he really believe his actions at Old Owl Well were any kind of secret?

"Was your father a paladin?" Zhjaeve asked Ammon.

"No but it was certainly the wish of his heart to become one. He believed it was the family curse that caused Helm to refuse to accept him. Later he blamed me." His eyes were on Casavir while he spoke. His voice was always harsh but it was not always so ironic. "After all, he was a valiant and righteous man. What other reason could there be for his god's rebuff?"

"I know not what you mean by a family curse," Zhjaeve said.

"The Jerro name is an ancient one. It has long been whispered that infernal blood runs in our veins. According to my father and his father before him, these were rumors put about by our enemies to discredit us. Then I was born, to prove the rumors right."

"Your people believe that to be a warlock is to be cursed?" she asked.

"It is commonly held as truth that a warlock's powers come from darkness," Casavir said. "I do not know if that is so."

"That was certainly my father's belief," Ammon added caustically. "He insisted that I study traditional magic, in the hope that I would pass as a wizard and not be known as the warlock that I am. It was he who insisted that I hide what I was. He forbade me to use the powers I was born with."

He turned his head toward me. I didn't say anything but I moved closer, within his reach. He didn't look like he wanted comfort though. He looked like he wanted to kick someone.

"For the longest time, he persuaded himself that I obeyed him," he told me. "I couldn't. The power burned within me and it _had_ to be used."

I would have liked to know more but he stood, with a terse comment about the need to get an early start.

Judging by the flicker of lightning in the hills to the east, rain would come sometime in the night. There were two special tents for us 'leaders' and everyone in the camp seemed to assume that one was for the women—Zhjaeve and I. It was pitched near a small copse of trees to give some modicum of privacy. I couldn't help but cast Ammon a look of longing. The wry glance I got in return showed me how much he and Casavir were going to enjoy sleeping within arm's reach of each other. The tents were not large.

If only there was some way I could share a tent with Ammon without causing embarrassment all around but it just couldn't be done.

Perhaps it was just as well, for although Zhjaeve could occasionally take me aback with her queries and comments about things I took for granted, she was also a comfortable person to be around. There was a deep stillness within her. I could sit and meditate upon my spells and she would never fidget or make me feel self-conscious.

Also she never complained about Bodo, who had the obnoxious habit of crawling through everyone's belongings. He had the even more obnoxious habit of dropping dry little turds (bristling with insect wings, feathers, and less identifiable bits and pieces of his diverse diet) wherever he pleased. They were easily flicked away but most people fussed about them for some reason. Zhjaeve never did. She thought his gaudy carapace was beautiful. In return for her forbearance, he treated her with almost the same lack of wariness that he had with Elanee.

Normally we were both ready for sleep when our meditations were done, but after I extinguished my light spell and crawled into my blankets, her low voice came from the darkness by my side.

"What is the source of the enmity between Ammon and Casavir?"

"Enmity is a strong word," I said slowly. Was it an accurate one? Perhaps it was. I had thought Ammon's hostility was a reaction to Casavir's rather obvious disapproval and now I wasn't so sure. He had sounded so bitter when he spoke of his father.

"To build power to aid in his fight against the King of Shadows, Ammon has done things that Casavir believes are wrong," I said. "He has dealt with devils and demons. He has lied and deceived. He has been…ruthless…with the lives of others. And Ammon…" I frowned to myself in the darkness as I thought about him. "I suspect Ammon believes that there is no excuse for failure. Maybe he fears that Casavir will place his compassion for others or his duty to his god above the need to stop the King of Shadows."

"Do you fear that as well?"

"You ask difficult questions!" I said with an uncomfortable little laugh. "Why do you ask that?"

"To know the strengths and limitations of those who will stand with you against the shadow is a part of your task, Kalach-Cha."

"I don't think Casavir will abandon his duty or beliefs," I said at last. "I see that as his strength and his shield, not as a weakness. But perhaps that is because I share that weakness. A little, anyway." Not that I could claim the selfless devotion to others that Casavir felt. But there were things I would not do. Things I was probably not capable of doing.

"Ammon has a point," I said. "But I can't say I agree with him. Not completely. After all…"

"I wish to know your thought," she said, when the silence stretched out.

"The King of Shadows himself was a man once. He was a strong man, a good man, and he sacrificed everything he was to become Illefarn's guardian. There was nothing he wouldn't do to protect his people and yet he failed. And we know what became of him, how he was corrupted. And Ammon…has already sacrificed much." The parallel was chilling.

"Did Ammon's sacrifices bring him success in his battle against shadow?" Zhjaeve asked, as if she was walking the path of my thoughts.

"No," I whispered. "Gith's Blade shattered in his hands."

"When the sword is forged anew, who will wield it?"

"I will."

I guess she had made her point, whatever it was, for I heard her settle back into her blankets. After a moment, so did I.

* * *

It was hard to sleep soundly on the hard chilly ground, so I woke when Zhjaeve slipped out of the tent. Probably seeking the privy hole, I assumed since it was still pitch dark and the camp wasn't stirring. I burrowed back into my blankets and was more than half asleep when another cold blast of air came from the open tent flap.

"Wake up, Jess," Ammon said in my ear. I sat up in a jerk, but there were no flames, no sounds of battle or panic. The camp was still dark and quiet. Ammon crouched beside me and a soft light from his ring showed that his face was calm.

"What is it?" I asked as my heart slowed down to normal. For a moment I was ready to be irritated and then it occurred to me why a man might creep into his lover's tent so late in the night watch. "Zhjaeve will be back any moment," I warned.

"She told me she would be occupied for quite some time," he said with a little smile.

"Oh, did she?" I returned the smile and patted the blankets invitingly. "Well, in that case, perhaps you would like to come…rest…a moment? You look cold." I would have said he looked sleepy except that he actually seemed disturbingly alert.

"I have a better idea," he said. "Get dressed and come with me." I just stared at him a moment.

"That is not a better idea."

"Come now, Jess, you don't want to waste the day away in bed."

"It's not day, it's still night," I grumbled, wondering what part of my invitation could be considered a waste. His intent eyes continued to bore into me. I sighed and wriggled out of the bedroll. "Why are you doing this to me?" I complained. I pulled on yesterday's pants and wool blouse.

"Must you wear that?" he asked in distaste when I picked up my fancy blue surcoat, token of my sworn servitude to Lord Nasher.

"No, but it's warm," I said. I rolled it up and thrust it into my saddlebag. I had packed a plain tunic, but it had seen many better days. I sighed and pulled it out. "You sound just like Casavir," I added, knowing how much that would please him. "What do you have against Nasher, anyway? Casavir despises him for sacrificing his principles to protect Neverwinter's interests, but surely that doesn't offend _your_ sensibilities." Ammon's lip lifted in a sneer.

"Nasher is short-sighted and arrogant. He'd rather bury his failures than learn from them." He shook out my blankets and rolled them neatly while I put on my tunic and boots. "Is that everything?" he asked when I closed the ties to my saddlebag. "You have the shards?" I nodded. Bodo came out of nowhere and climbed up my body to perch on my shoulder. "Come quietly then. I have something for you."

We walked carefully through the sleeping camp. I nodded to the Greycloak on watch. Ammon led me to the pickets where two horses were saddled and waiting, reins held by one of the grooms.

"That's not my horse," I said.

"That nag you've been riding is better suited as a packhorse," he said. "Or possibly stew meat."

"That nag I've been riding won't throw me off and kill me," I replied. This new horse was bigger and a whole lot bouncier. While he didn't look particularly vicious (unlike Ammon's horse, who laid his ears back when I approached) he was eyeing me with the same suspicious look I felt myself. "This is not my idea of a pleasant surprise, Ammon." He lashed my gear onto the saddle despite my protests.

"Come now, you will not become a better rider without a better horse." He gave me a leg up. The horse moved restlessly and I was kept busy for a few moments. Ammon didn't seem to have much trouble with the brute he was riding even though his horse seemed even unhappier than I was at being roused so early in the day.

"I don't want to be a better rider. I don't want to be a rider at all. I like walking and riding in wagons."

The groom tossed a small sack to Ammon, who caught it one-handed without dropping the reins or losing control of his horse, I noticed enviously.

"Nonsense."

"Besides, it's still dark." Although Lathander's time was coming soon, judging from the faint streaks of light in the east. "And I haven't had any breakfast."

Ammon rode closer. Opening his sack, he handed me half a loaf of stale bread and some leathery dried plums. How I was supposed to hold onto all this without falling off my horse was something of a mystery. Finally I stuffed the plums into my tunic pocket and gave Bodo a hunk of bread to keep him from crawling in after them. And then I followed Ammon off into the near darkness. I knew he could see in the dark and since he didn't ask me for a light, I didn't cast one. There was enough moonlight to see the path, which was wide enough to ride side by side.

"I'm pretty sure that horse of yours is carnivorous," I said, after his second attempt to take a chunk out of my leg. I was glad Zhjaeve didn't see the brutal jerk of the bit Ammon gave the chestnut.

"He simply needs to learn who his master is."

"The grooms call him 'Demonspawn'," I said. Ammon gave a snort of laughter.

We rode together in silence. The sun rose in a glory of pink and gold, and I said a silent prayer to Lathander. Brother Merring had taught me that prayer. I wondered if he had survived the attack on West Harbor and the shadow that had fallen over the Mere. It seemed unlikely. He would not have fled if there were children or wounded who needed him.

For the next couple of hours, Ammon put me and the horses through our paces and I did my best to absorb the steady barrage of critique. Some of his instruction finally made it through my skull, I suppose, for at last he seemed satisfied that I had improved a bit.

"I knew you would do better on this horse," he said, pleased with his own plan. I nodded in agreement, although I suspected that spending time away from other distractions might have had more to do with any progress I had made. I'd seen no sign of the others behind us, not even our scouts.

The woods had begun closing in on the path as we traveled further along. Ammon turned off the path to follow a small stream. After awhile we slid off the horses and let them drink. I walked carefully around Demonspawn because not only did he bite, he kicked. The water was cold enough to freeze my fingers when I squatted and drank from my cupped hands. We found a clean boulder to perch on. Ammon's food sack held another loaf of bread and a sausage, which he cut in two to share. Bodo snooped around hopefully then headed off into the woods to do his own foraging.

"If this is your idea of a tryst, it could use some improvement," I said after the silence dragged on a bit. I didn't totally approve of the sausage maker's choice of spices but I was hungry enough to eat it anyway. "More wine. Better food. Less time in the saddle," I suggested. "More time on a blanket."

"Yes, well, we should talk about that."

"Blankets?" I asked. His face was too serious to give me much hope.

"Trysting."

"We have to talk about it?" He did not smile. This was not a good omen. "Go ahead then," I said flatly.

"You must guard yourself against…attachments…that may weaken your resolve."

"Why would you say that? In what way has my resolve weakened?"

"There is a softness in you, Jess. You must let neither your feelings nor your compassion for others distract you from your purpose, or you will fail us all."

"Caring for others is not a weakness." This was an eerie reflection of my conversation with Zhjaeve.

"You are too young to understand this yet but with time, you will," he said. He was too intent upon his own words to notice my offended look. I was no child, no matter how many times he said I was. "You must trust that I know what is best. You are my last weapon against the King of Shadows. You _are_ the Blade of Gith now, or you will be. When the time comes, you must not break."

I set down my food and then I wiped the knife I'd been using to cut the sausage on my pants leg and sheathed it. I thought it might be safer not to have a sharp object in my hands.

"You think I am your _weapon_? Is that all I am to you? Is that why you woke me up before dawn and dragged me out here? So you could _hone_ me?"

"Something like that," he said warily.

"I thought you wanted to be with me. I thought…"

"We don't have much time, Jess. The King of Shadows…"

"No, do not bring him into every single conversation we have, Ammon. The King of Shadows can wait. I am the one you face right now."

"What then should we speak of?"

I blew out a breath.

"So why did you bother to sleep with me in the first place? Is this part of the tempering process? Am I stronger now that I'm not a virgin blade anymore?"

"Jess."

"Don't 'Jess' me. You came to my bed; I didn't pursue you. If you think attachments are such a bad idea, why did you do that? Did you make a deal with Mephasm behind my back? Did you get power out of sleeping with me?" I'd certainly felt energy rushing through my body that night like I had never known in my life. Perhaps he was able to harness it somehow. Was that secret warlock lore?

"Or were you afraid I would sleep with someone else and form an 'attachment that would weaken my resolve'? Maybe with someone you couldn't control?" There was no expression on his face. "Blast you, Ammon, that's it. Isn't it?"

"I wanted to bed you and you wanted it too. I had no ulterior motive."

"You've lied to so many people, Ammon. Is there some reason I should believe you now?"

"You are angry and upset. This is what I feared would happen."

"Now that's not fair. You can't say what you just said to me and expect me not to be upset about it. I was fine until you opened your mouth."

"Do not let your emotions rule you."

"Now you sound like my father and trust me, I do not mean that as a compliment. Emotions are not bad, Ammon. Deception is bad. Manipulation is bad." I glared at him. "So is stupidity."

"So is childishness." I suppressed the childish urge to hit him.

"Point taken," I said. I sat with my knees pulled up and my arms around them. I didn't speak until I was sure I wasn't going to yell. "What exactly are you trying to tell me?" I asked.

"Our time is short and must be used productively. There is no time for dalliance." I frowned at that. I hadn't been suggesting that we spend the day here after all. What difference could an hour make? As if in answer to my thoughts, he said, "He is growing stronger, Jess."

"How do you know that?"

"I can feel him," he said. Although he remained sitting in the same apparently relaxed position, I could now see the tension running through his body. "In my dreams, I can feel him. I felt him last night. He is aware of us, Jess. He knows that between us, we have completed the Ritual of Purification. He knows what we are trying to do with the shards of the Blade of Gith. It is a race now."

"Gods. Are you certain?"

"Yes."

I laid my head against my knees and thought about that a moment.

"Does he know that we must mend the blade in West Harbor? Does he know that's where we're going?"

"I don't know, but he knows where the blade was broken, of course. It is a place of power. Surely he will be watching it."

"He'll be waiting for us there."

"I do not think he has the strength to send his avatar to this plane yet but he will send what forces he can. We should be prepared for an ambush."

Now I understood why Ammon wasn't in the mood for trysting, for frankly, I was no longer much in the mood myself.


	15. Fear and Dissent

**Chapter 15…Fear and Dissent**

Birds warbled, winter's midday light glistened on the gently flowing river and the wind rustled and rattled through the dry reeds along the bank like it whispered of death. My beetle Bodo had disappeared into the snarled undergrowth by the river and would stay there until we returned from West Harbor, successful or…not. My mood, which had been rotten ever since Ammon's little talk, plummeted further as I studied the rubble that had once been a lovely statue of Angharradh. More importantly, it had held part of the power of the Ritual of Purification. My horse moved restlessly but whether because of my agitation or because he sensed lingering traces of the creatures of shadow that had destroyed the ritual statue, I did not know.

Or maybe he smelled orcs. The decapitated bugbear that had been nailed in an obscene and gruesome pose on a post at the river crossing marked our entrance into the Corpsewalker Clan's territory. I imagined that charming display of orcish humor was a prime example of the kind of treatment of one's enemies that Sir Grayson had lectured me against when I became his squire.

I looked over at Ammon. Typically for him, he showed little expression but his lips were set in a thin line. There, broken on the ground, was the end of any last irrational hope he may have held that he could complete the Ritual himself. We had known we would see this but there is still a difference when the proof lies shattered before you. To me, anyway—perhaps for Zhjaeve knowing and seeing were the same. No matter how many times she had spoken to me of her home plane, the Harborman within me just could not completely accept her assertion that thought alone could shape reality. Yet when I stepped through the Song Portal and returned to West Harbor, that was exactly what I was expected to do. I was expected to recreate the mythic Blade of Gith with a handful of scrap metal and the strength of my will.

It was impossible. We were mad to have come here.

"Could they have destroyed the Song Portal as well?" I asked in sudden anxiety. Actually, nothing would make more sense than for the King of Shadows to destroy the only (theoretically) safe way we had for entering the Claimed Lands.

"No," Zhjaeve said calmly. "It is an artifact of Illefarn and he who was the Guardian would not destroy it." I gave her a doubtful look since the evidence was piled before us that not everything wrought by his people was sacred to the King of Shadows. The statues had been added later, after the Guardian's creation and specifically to un-make him, but still…

"We must pass through the portal with no delay," Ammon said.

I glared at him. We had just arrived at the ruins and had yet to even dismount our horses, let alone select a campsite or make a plan of attack. The Greycloaks would remain here, guarding the portal until we returned from the Mere and I needed to make sure they were safely settled in. Besides, I was hungry, thirsty and saddle-sore. The pushy damned warlock, on the other hand, was clearly champing at the bit and ready to plunge into who knew what kind of danger. Did the man never get tired? Come to think of it, the only time I had ever seen him display weariness was in his Haven, after Shandra had freed the demons and devils that empowered him—and after he had killed her for doing so. I wondered if such unnatural stamina was a byproduct of the infernal blood that made Ammon a warlock. Or maybe it was a result of one of his contracts with the denizens of the Lower Planes. Perhaps he had traded sexual favors for increased vigor, I wondered sourly.

Maybe I should have saved my virginity.

"We have other tasks to attend to first," I said. He opened his mouth to argue. I gave him my back. I must have jerked at the reins, judging by my horse's startled reaction, but the gods knew I was sick to death of Ammon's constant criticism, couched as advice. "Casavir, let's have the men set up camp near the portal." My thinking was that the Greycloaks would guard our retreat, should we find ourselves driven out of the Claimed Lands. I did not want to bring any of the soldiers through the portal, since we planned to move quickly and silently to West Harbor.

Casavir nodded but murmured, "Perhaps we should water the horses first."

We had ridden hard all morning and were right by the river, so that was a good suggestion. We all refilled our water skins as well.

"May we go now?" Ammon asked impatiently. I frowned and shook my head at him. Casavir, apparently reading my mind, had already located the pack that contained the gifts we had brought for Uthanck, the leader of the Corpsewalkers. I hoped a token of friendliness now would keep the orcs from harassing my Greycloaks while they camped here awaiting our return from West Harbor. I wished I could take credit for the idea but it was Casavir's. He had killed Uthanck's brother, Logram Eyegouger, in his stronghold near Old Owl Well and the orcs here were tremendously impressed with him. We had left them on good terms my first trip here but with orcs, it never paid to make too many assumptions. The last thing we needed now was an attack on the camp due to some misunderstanding.

I had thought that Casavir and I would take a quick ride over to the orc village while the others set up camp but Ammon joined us without an invitation. Ever since his chat about avoiding attachments, I had felt constraint in his presence. Weirdly enough, Ammon, having pushed me away emotionally, now stuck to me closer than ever physically. He was trying to head off any youthful and lack-witted folly on my part, no doubt. What if, so close to our goal, I dropped the shards down a well or fell off my horse and broke my neck? How could I be expected to survive without him to keep my immaturity in check? Maybe he even thought I _wanted_ his protection. Possibly it had never occurred to him that any of his words could have hurt me.

When it came to women, his judgment seemed to have some serious gaps.

For I _was_ angry and hurt and the worst of it, of course, was that it was my own damned fault. In his blunt way he had warned me and I hadn't believed him. He had been more honest with me than I had been with myself. Ammon had never pretended he saw me as anything more than a necessary tool. A weapon, as he said. Ammon had never led me on with sweet words or false promises. I had told him myself that I wasn't looking for a relationship and that I just wanted to experience sex before I died. If he took me at my word, whose fault was that? He had given me what I said I wanted.

If I expected more, whose fault was that?

And although it wasn't fair to resent him for feeling no more than he did, I did resent him. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. It wasn't fair that I was given one impossible task after another. It wasn't fair that I was supposed to—somehow—use my mind and my heart to forge a blade that had already been broken once. And then I was supposed to attack the King of Shadows with the damned thing—a creature who had brought down the Illefarn empire in all its glory, an ancient dragon, and thousands of the finest githyanki warriors. But little Jess Farlong, the swamp farmer from West Harbor, was going to best him because—why? For that matter, why, exactly, did we think the sword was going to work this time when it had already failed once? It wasn't, wasn't, wasn't fair!

And if I was going to die (and really, how could I not?) was it too damned much to ask for one person to care about _me,_ if only for a little while? Not the Kalach-Cha, not the Knight-Captain of Crossroad Keep, not the latest conscript of Nasher's Nine, but just plain old Jess Farlong. Was that really too much to ask?

Apparently it was.

As if I didn't have enough to brood about, being in Arvahn brought back memories of my previous visit, when I first heard the tragic story of how the Guardian had been created, and how he—or _it_, as he had been a man no longer—had been corrupted into the creature we knew as the King of Shadows. Hearing the tale from the mouths of those who had lived it—and died as a result—had given the tragedy an immediacy and impact no history book could convey. My flesh had crept in horror at the elf girl's story of the nameless hero's sacrifice and torture. I had been so angry at the sheer waste of it all. The spirit Annaeus' smug belief that he had done the right thing and would do it all again without regret had irritated me almost past bearing.

Now my feelings were a little different. After all, what were ten ten-days of agony and the very unmaking of one's self in comparison to the punishment that awaited Ammon when the debts he accrued in the Lower Planes finally came due? Sure, Ammon had made those bargains of his own free will, but so had the nameless Illefarn hero. And sure, Ammon should have known that no good could come of dealing with devils and demons—just as that nameless hero should have known that no good could come of turning to the Shadow Weave. They had both acted out of desperation—and the desperate yet arrogant belief that the fate of the land they wished to protect depended upon them and them alone.

And wasn't that the Guardian's first and most pivotal error: thinking that Illefarn would die if he failed? Had he so little faith in his people's ability to defend themselves if he was not there? For that matter, did he think them incapable of creating another Guardian, if he fell? Was the prospect of his own failure so unthinkable that he would do anything—_anything_, no matter how wrong—to avert it?

And didn't that sound a whole lot like someone else I knew?

Was it possible that the priest Annaeus had been right all along? As mortals, we can't foresee the consequences of the actions we take. We just can't. Yet we are required to make choices without that knowledge. Did we really have any option but to make the best decisions we could based on the principles we had been taught, and leave the rest to the gods? Instead of whining, perhaps I should be praying. Ammon, of course, had no more faith in the gods than he did in his fellow man. Perhaps the nameless hero had been faithless as well. Given his willingness to sacrifice his very soul to protect his empire and his people, he probably had been.

For me, what did this mean? The Guardian had turned himself into a ruthless, unquestioning weapon. If I were to 'become' the Blade of Gith, was this the path I was expected to take? What would be required to forge the blade anew? Would I, like the Guardian, be expected to give up my very self? Ammon's words seemed to imply something of the sort. Was I willing to make such a sacrifice?

Or had the sword and the gods chosen me for a different reason? I had to believe that it wasn't mere chance that had sent the shard through _my_ chest and I had to believe that the gods had a hand in my continued survival because mere chance was just too—chancy. But if the sword had chosen me, it certainly wasn't because I was the strongest, smartest, bravest or most capable of mortals. What I did seem to have was the ability to draw strong, smart, brave and capable people to my cause. And perhaps this was due to some magic from the shard within me and not mere chance. Although that wasn't exactly a comforting thought, it was more comforting than the possibility that I was meant to hammer and hone myself into a pale rendering of Gith or the Guardian or…Ammon Jerro, perhaps.

Ack.

The orc village was not far. The gifts—ten fine axes from the keep's smithy and some gold and silver jewelry (looted from the bandits who used to plague our road)—were well received. Uthanck greeted Casavir as a peer and his warriors showed him the deference due a visiting warlord. As far as I could tell, orc society was intensely patriarchal. I was politely leered at as 'Casavir's woman' and otherwise ignored, except by the women, several of whom gathered around me to finger my clothes and my hair and to ask embarrassingly personal questions. I kept my answers vague while eavesdropping on the men's conversation, which had turned to the shadow reaver who had destroyed the ritual statues.

The intrusion of the King of Shadow's minions had been seen as a personal challenge by Uthanck but luckily for him he had heeded the advice of Ilrah Broken-Ribs, his shaman, and had not attacked but had stayed hidden and watched.

"That was wise. The shadow reavers can only be destroyed through a special ritual," Casavir said. Uthanck nodded his understanding.

"Gruumsh One-Eye warned us not to fight," Ilrah said. "In a dream, he told me that to stand against the shades now would mean the end of the Corpsewalker Clan. He told us to strike when their strength had waned, not now while it still waxed."

"We have learned how to weaken the shadow reavers," Casavir said. "Now we go to find the weapon that will weaken their master. We ask you to let us pass through your lands so we can do this."

"Of course," Uthanck said. Then he pressed us to join him in a meal. The women beside me, who had been listening as avidly as I, quivered in a mix of excitement and dismay. I guessed they were ill-prepared to throw together a feast on no notice.

"No," Ammon said harshly. "We must set off at once. We have wasted enough time as it is." He gave me a stern look. "Come, Jess." He all but snapped his fingers at me. I seethed with angry mortification.

Uthanck frowned and turned to Casavir, who said a few diplomatic words I couldn't quite hear. The orc leader didn't seem to know what to make of Ammon, with his glowing tattoos and his glowering expression. I held my breath for we had enough on our platter without heaping on a fight with the orcs. But the moment passed and Uthanck did not appear to take offense. One of the orc women, noticing my clenched fists, chuckled.

"Do not fear," she said in a hoarse whisper. "Your father's words will not make Uthanck think ill of your husband. He too has a difficult father-in-law, a constant thorn in his side. Tough as an old bone too. Uthanck fears he will live forever." My _father_—Ammon? When I choked, she gave me a friendly whack on the back.

"Don't you ever call me to heel like a dog again," I hissed at Ammon as we rode back to the others. "If your impatience had set the orcs against us, we could be in a tight spot. Would you pit a handful of my Greycloaks against an entire tribe of orcs, ones who know this area intimately?"

"They are no challenge to us. You waste your time appeasing orcs," he fired back. "There is no honor in their brutish minds. An agreement made today will be forgotten tomorrow."

Casavir, riding on my other side, didn't say anything but I saw his jaw tighten.

"Do you have any other pointless tasks? Would you like to set up camp with your own hands? Perhaps you wish to dig the privies and cook a meal for your Greycloaks? Or can we finally do what we came to do?" Ammon asked. "I am certain the King of Shadows will not mind waiting upon your pleasure."

"I'm glad you think so because after I cook supper I thought I'd change my outfit and maybe do my hair," I said. I knew I was being stupid and annoying but he started it. "I'd like to look nice for the king and his reavers. Does that sound good to you?"

I found his sudden flush of angry color rather satisfying, especially since I actually had planned to change before we entered the portal. Grobnar, who among his many other talents was skilled with a needle, had helped me make a new robe. It was made of heavy brown silk from Kara-Tur and was slit up the sides and hemmed to my knees for ease of movement. (Brown was such a _useful_ color for hiding bloodstains, Grobnar had chirped helpfully.) Sand had sniffed when he saw it and dropped several pithy comments to the effect that wizards who thought they were fighters were not much of either. My skills, such as they were, made it hard to rebut this argument. Despite his disapproval, he had enchanted my robe to turn a spell as well as a blade. I now had the protection of chain mail without the weight or the annoying jingle-jangle when I walked.

The soldiers had already set up the pickets and were getting the horses settled. Zhjaeve took my reins while I slid ungracefully off my horse and pulled my saddle bags loose. Her gaze flicked from me to Ammon and she gave me a look of mild inquiry. I just rolled my eyes in response. Her brows drew down in concern and I felt a little surge of resentment. If she admonished me with yet another of Zerthimon's incomprehensible pronouncements, I would probably scream.

"Know that I am in a foul mood," I snapped before she could say anything.

All the gear from the packhorses was lying in an untidy mound but Casavir located his armor and asked one of the Greycloaks to help him into it. It bothered me that he was the only one of us in heavy armor. He was not solely responsible for our safety but I feared he would think he was. I could see by the calmness of his eyes and the happy little curve of his lips that he had given himself over to Tyr's will. He gave me a reassuring smile as he shrugged into his arming coat but I was not reassured. I had seen that look before. The orcs had called him the Katalmach, and being considered battle-mad by orc standards was no small thing.

It didn't take me long to slough off my tunic, throw on my new robe, sling my weapon belt around my waist and the pouch of shards over my shoulder. But every time I looked up, I caught Ammon's burning gaze. So to punish and irritate him further, I pulled out my comb. My hair wasn't in desperate need of re-braiding and normally I could do it quicker than Casavir could put on one pauldron. Instead of letting my fingers fly, I languidly pulled the tie out of my hair and began to work the comb through with dreamy slowness.

That did it. Ammon snapped. He strode to me and grabbed me by the shoulders.

"If you choose to provoke me, you will reap the consequences. I will not suffer this childish behavior," he said and he gave me a shake to punctuate his words.

"You will not dictate to me," I said hotly. "You are not my lord and I have had more than enough of your condescending attempts to mold and control me. I am not some horse for you to master or some demon for you to enslave. If you cannot follow my direction, you may wait here with the Greycloaks for my return. I'm beginning to think I'd be better off if you did so."

"I will not be told what to do by a chit of a girl with no experience of what we are up against."

His face was furious and I'm sure mine was too. My hair began to lift from a surge of unshaped spell energy as I unconsciously drew upon the Weave.

"That is enough from both of you!" Zhjaeve's voice, cold and compelling as an avalanche, froze us both in place. The last time I'd heard that tone from her, she'd been rebuking a shadow reaver. "Know that our strength lies in unity of purpose. Fear and dissent are weapons of the King of Shadows and you have allowed him to strike a blow at us here and now."

Ammon and Zhjaeve continued to argue back and forth but I was hardly listening. I struggled to free the energy I'd accidentally called before it released itself in an unfortunate way. Like a big fireball. And worse, I struggled with the tears welling in my eyes. I couldn't remember crying out of anger since my seventh summer when Amie punched me in the face for calling Bevil stupid. But I was about to do so now and I wasn't even sure why.

I was fairly certain everyone in the camp would prefer the fireball to seeing their Knight-Captain weep like a child. Instead of immolating myself, I turned without a word and strode down the path to the river. I didn't make it though. Half-blinded by tears, I sat on one of the large stones that had once made up part of the broken statue's robe. I pressed my hands against my eyes but the tears still flowed. I hadn't even begun to get myself under control when I heard a familiar step.

"Go away," I muttered without looking up.

"I can't do that, Jess. I need you. We all do." Ammon took my arm. It seemed slightly more dignified to let him pull me to my feet than to struggle but I refused to face him or look at him. "I did not mean to harass you," he said. "The githzerai has reminded me that it is your will that must guide us now."

"My will." I made some sound between a sob and a laugh. "That's what we are relying upon? Discouraging, isn't it?" Despite my efforts to sound calm, my voice broke. I wished the gods would strike me dead.

"No," he said. "I am not discouraged. You have accomplished much already." I blinked furiously and willed my voice to be steady.

"If you've come to remind me that the fate of the Sword Coast rests upon me, don't bother. I remember."

"If I could spare you this burden, I would."

"I am well aware that you would rather do this all yourself. Your competence puts us all to shame."

"I am…unaccustomed to relying upon others." I snorted at this massive understatement. "Jess, I have meant to aid you, not to add to your burdens."

"Constant carping is not the aid I need," I said bitterly. "I already know my many shortcomings."

He pulled on my shoulder to get me to turn towards him. I could feel the warmth of his hand through the silk of my robe.

"Then tell me what you need."

I looked up at his face, acutely conscious of my wet cheeks. I mutely turned my head. But I guess that one pitiful look was enough, for his arms closed around me. For a moment I was stiff, and then I gave in with a tearful shudder and put my arms around his waist. We stood like that a long moment, with the weak winter sun on my back and the more intense warmth of his body pressed against my front.

"I know you are fearless but I am not." My face was buried against his shoulder and my words came out muffled. "I'm afraid, Ammon. I don't want to go to West Harbor. I don't want to see…what remains." He held me a while longer.

"There is a thing I must say to you," he murmured into my hair. I lifted my head to look at his face. His eyes were still and thoughtful.

"I know," I sighed. "I must not be distracted. I must not fail."

"No," he said. "I was wrong to lay that expectation on you. Failure need not be final, as you know from my own example. If failure cannot be avoided then it must be accepted." His arms tightened around me. "It is your survival that is important, Jess. If you fail and yet live, then you can return to the fight. But if you fail and die, then your fight is at an end. You must live, Jess, even if that requires the sacrifice of others, of those you…care about."

I made some sound of protest.

"Why do you think I have warned you to avoid attachments? I knew this would be difficult for you to accept. As much as we need Crossroad Keep, it angers me that Nasher knighted you and put it in your sole charge. You are too young for such responsibility." I started to pull away but he would not turn me loose. "I mean no criticism of your leadership," he said at my look. "You have done a fine job with the keep. It is not your capability I doubt but your sense of self-preservation. You care too much. What are you going to do when these Greycloaks you've trained and nurtured must face the army of the King of Shadows? Soldiers die, Jess. That is the very nature of war. Do you truly understand that? I can assure you that your Lord Nasher does. You are just another soldier to him, as are we all."

"I know about war. I have survived the slaughter of my village—twice now, in fact."

"Yes. You have. And look at you, Jess." He raised a hand to wipe the tears from my face. I jerked my head away.

"What are you saying? Do you think my fear will keep me from acting when I should?" He shook his head.

"No. I am afraid that you will act rashly. I fear you are idealistic enough to be swayed towards choosing a glorious death over an ignominious survival. I fear the paladin's influence on you."

"You think Casavir is a bad influence on me?" That was kind of funny but not as funny as _him_ accusing _me_ of rashness.

"I would not have you emulate him."

"I don't think you need to worry about that." Judging by his face, he was not reassured. "I promise I will do my best to avoid a glorious death. I will pray for an ignominious survival," I told him. "Does that satisfy you?"

He took my hand and pressed it, not gently like a lover but hard, like he wanted to hurt me.

"See that you do."


	16. Shadowed Homecoming

_Author's Note: Some of Zhjaeve's little pep talk towards the end of the chapter is stolen, I mean borrowed, well let's just say gleaned from Planescape: Torment which, of course, I own no rights to. (Don't own Neverwinter Nights 2 either, come to think of it. If I did, the female PC's romance would have been a __**lot**__ different!) Know that I feel no shame for this blatant plagiarism._

**Chapter 16…Shadowed Homecoming**

Ammon's firm hand at the small of my back propelled me through the Song Portal. We stepped through and found ourselves deep inside the Illefarn ruin. So the portal worked properly this time. That was something of a relief. Last time through, the King of Shadows had tampered with the portal and we'd been diverted to what had been left of my village. If I had been controlling the portal, I think I would have dumped my enemies into a convenient patch of quicksand but luckily for us, the King of Shadows didn't think like I did.

Or maybe he had other plans for us.

At any rate, we weren't immediately sucked dry of life upon entering the Claimed Lands. Aldanon had been right after all. Directly before us was another broken statue but I'd actually witnessed this one's destruction. There were still dark stains on the stone—blood. Most of it was mine. I'd met my first Shadow Reaver here and bore, as a memento, a scar that stretched from my shoulder to my elbow. I set a ball of light bouncing over our heads and stepped carefully, mindful of the rubble underfoot. Breaking an ankle now would not get me out of the task before me and would surely earn me censure from my warlock.

We emerged into an eerie twilight. The King of Shadows did not have the power to blot out the pale winter sun (not yet anyway), but a pall hung over the Claimed Lands. The unnatural mist dampened sounds as well as my spirits, but perhaps there were no sounds to be silenced. Certainly I heard no insects or birds and there was no breeze to lift so much as a whisper from the dying trees.

At first, I thought the fog that concealed the destruction of my village was a blessing. But the fog flirted with my vision, first concealing and then revealing. These sly revelations were more shocking than having the horrors laid out plain to view. Bodies still lay where they had fallen. Inevitably I was reminded of walking through the destruction of Ember—except this was _my_ village. None of the dead here were strangers. And although sunken in as if they had decayed from the inside, the bodies were almost untouched by the rough kindness that nature's depredations should have wrought upon them. Where were the scavengers, small and large, that should have ravaged and transformed the dead and returned them back to the earth? Like all other life that belonged here, they were gone.

"We're no better than the Luskans," I murmured. Only Casavir understood my reference to Ember. He nodded in grim agreement.

"These people deserved proper burial rites," he said. His face was tight with suppressed anger. His eyes seemed focused on something I could not see. I did not know what he was sensing and for that I was truly, deeply thankful. I had often suspected that being blind to evil was more of a blessing than a curse. "There is no justice in their deaths or in this further defilement. We have failed grievously in our duty to them."

I could not help but flinch from the truth in his words. Casavir had rarely rebuked me and never so harshly. His words hurt me more than I would have believed possible. No fresh tears came, thank the gods, but I felt sick—literally sick. I could taste bile at the back of my throat.

I still felt guilty when I recalled first leaving West Harbor. Daeghun had ordered me to take his shard to Neverwinter. He couldn't go, he said; I had to do it. I remembered standing in the shelter of the Starling's barn, with the priest's prayers and the cries of the wounded a soft and disturbing background to my father's whispered instructions. I had shouldered my travel pack and walked past the bodies that lay in the field awaiting burial and, despite the shock and sadness I had felt a shameful bubble of excitement rise within me. For I had been desperate to escape the confines of my village and leaving was all I had dreamed of since my early teens. And even then, knowing nothing of the path that stretched before me, some childish and irrational voice within me had feared that my wish for escape had somehow brought disaster upon my village.

That childish voice was wailing within me now.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, as if words would help.

"Ah, my lady, no." Casavir's attention turned to me from wherever grim place it had been. He looked at me with worried eyes and his mailed hands closed over my shoulders. "I meant no…if there is blame, we all share it."

"No. The responsibility was mine. These were my people yet I gave no thought to this." I gestured with my hand at the fallen. "I forgot." And I added the shameful truth. "I didn't _want_ to remember."

"You were severely wounded, Jess, and we did not know what other forces…"

Ammon interrupted.

"These self-recriminations serve no purpose. We must move and quickly."

His brisk business-like tone rubbed me like a rasp. Casavir released me and we both turned to face Ammon. I had been so preoccupied by the unburied bodies that I had actually lost sight of how they had died and why. Daeghun had warned the villagers to leave but most would not listen. Hard-headed Harbormen—it took more than withered crops and a migration of lizardfolk to make them feel threatened. And they had not died without a fight. Almost without exception, every man, woman and child I'd seen had a weapon in hand when they fell. But who had they been fighting? Shadows or…

I took a step towards the warlock.

"How many of these people were killed by the King of Shadows and how many were killed by your demons, Ammon?" His dense brows began to form a scowl.

"What are you talking about?"

"It is plain to see that some of these people were struck down by demon fire." He opened his mouth but I kept talking. "I guess you turned your hordes loose on the village again. Must have been like old times for your _allies_. Back at your haven, your boy Zaxis bragged about all the souls you let him devour." Of course he been talking about the first attack on West Harbor, when I'd been a baby, but it was all the same.

"I did _not_ 'turn my hordes loose'…"

My hands were icy. I realized that I had a death-grip on the hilt of my sword. I let go. My hands were shaking and as soon as I noticed that, a tremor ran all through me. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered.

"Jess, West Harbor was a trap. It was an ambush. The village was overrun with shadows and no doubt most of the villagers were dead before I arrived. My 'demon horde' held the reaver and his minions here so that I could slip past to the Illefarn ruins and get to the statue."

"I don't…" _believe you_. "That makes no sense."

"It didn't make sense to me at the time. I believed the reaver was tracking me by my shard like the githyanki but my presence was as much a shock to him as his was to me. I could not understand how he arrived here before me, for I move swiftly and secretly, as you know. Only later did I realize that I was not the target of his trap. You were. The King of Shadows had become aware you were performing the Ritual of Purification and he meant to stop you."

I couldn't help it; I looked up at Casavir's face to see if Ammon was telling the truth. Ammon, being Ammon, both caught and interpreted my questioning look. His eyes hardened and narrowed.

"Dredging up the past now accomplishes nothing and serves only as a distraction we do not need." He spoke as if through gritted teeth. "Castigate me later if you must. Time is of the essence now."

Zhjaeve caught my arm. Her touch surprised me for it was rare.

"Ammon is correct," she said. I expected a reaction from Ammon, if only a snide look but he acted as if he hadn't heard her. "The power of the King of Shadows is strong here. He seeks to divert and distract you from your goal. Clear your mind, Jess, and bring your focus and discipline to bear."

Even rarer than her touch was her use of my name. I nodded and she patted my arm before she released me.

"There is danger here," she said. "The shadows gather." I nodded again and, forcing my mind to an artificial calm, cast Stoneskin upon myself. Consciously touching and drawing upon the Weave, the very embodiment of Mystra, steadied me like prayer. Having the spell armor in place, knowing that I'd likely soon be drawing my blade, also steadied me. Focus and discipline, focus and discipline—I spoke the words as a mantra and begged Mystra that they would be enough.

The open door to my old home sagged on its bent hinges like a drunk holding onto the wall. The house's obvious abandonment made a guilty grab at my heart but I ignored the feeling. I knew now what I hadn't known my last time here. I knew Daeghun lived. The house was unimportant.

Then my heart gave a lurch as my eyes registered movement. There was someone on my porch. I ran forward as the figures moved down the broken steps to stand before me.

"Jess, you've come back!" Webb Mossfeld said.

"We didn't know where you'd gone," his brother Ward said. "We waited here for you."

"Knew you'd come back," Webb said. They looked at each other and identical smiles crawled over their faces.

"Where's Wyl?" I asked. My voice was steady despite the inward creeping of my flesh. From the corner of my eye, I saw Casavir draw his hammer. I didn't really need the warning look he gave me though. I knew they couldn't be alive.

"Wyl's…gone," Webb said.

"He's gone on. A shame, that—he always liked you." Ward moved closer and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "He was sweet on you, Jessie, even though you never gave him a second look off the practice field. You had more time for that sour old wizard than any of us dumb old farm boys. Always too good for us, weren't you, girl?"

"Now that's just not fair." Webb smiled at my hot words.

"Too bad Wyl can't be here now. But we're here and we can help you."

"Oh? And how exactly will you help me?"

"Walk with us and we will tell you."

"Tell me here," I suggested. I unsheathed my sword.

"Have it your way," Webb said. His face darkened. His eyes flashed red and suddenly the semblance of flesh he wore burned away, leaving nothing but shadow behind. Many other shadows poured out of the ground like black mist and surged toward us. Like Casavir's hammer, my sword gleamed with the blessed enchantment that Crossroad Keep's priest Ivarr had woven into it. Faced by two holy weapons, it seemed that the wave faltered for a moment.

And in that moment, Ammon's magic ripped through them like a dark vengeful flame. Shadow met eldritch blast, sword and hammer—and shadow was gone.

"Was that really the Mossfelds?" I asked Zhjaeve. "Is the King of Shadows just playing with my mind or did he _take_ them like he took Garius and his Brotherhood thugs?"

"Garius and the other reavers gave themselves to the King of Shadows," she said thoughtfully. "What you saw here was no more than an echo of those you once knew. From his prison in the Shadow Plane, the King of Shadows' power over spirits is…limited."

I hoped she was right because something in her tone made me think she was speaking from less than total certainty.

We moved quickly along the path through town until we came to the next obstacle. Someone had destroyed the bridge.

"Isn't that grand," I said. Just what I was in the mood for: a nice refreshing dip in a frigid and murky river. "The water's only about waist deep though." By the time we crossed, we'd all smell like Harbormen (if we didn't already). I thought about taking off my boots but they were already pretty wet from the slog through the swamp.

"Stop!" Zhjaeve ran forward. "The water bears the poisons of shadow."

"That's…" Impossible, I wanted to say. How could an entire river be poisoned? But I remembered Elanee's maddened druid friend, Kaleil. He had warned us of the waters of the Mere. I had thought he spoke some woodsy druid metaphor but in light of Zhjaeve's warning I wasn't so sure. "That's inconvenient," I said weakly. A lot of people used skiffs or canoes to navigate the Mere but I had no idea where we would find one.

Ammon muttered something behind me and suddenly I found myself scooped off the ground by long, strong and bony arms. I looked up into a long, strong and bony face. The giant skeleton waded across the river, carrying me with all the tenderness appropriate to a sack of dirty laundry. The creature dumped me in a bank of dead ferns. I landed hard on my rear.

"Thanks," I said sarcastically, checking to see if the damned thing was smirking but it had already turned to fetch Zhjaeve. Unfortunately the shadows weren't chivalrous enough to wait for everyone to be shuttled across before they attacked again. I found myself facing them alone.

Some of them were wearing familiar faces and forms—children even, meant to tug at my heart but I was starting to run out of sorrow and regret. With a kind of relief, I sank into anger's warm embrace. The shadows approached but I didn't wait for them to speak. I pulled hard upon the power of the Weave and it felt weakened. Here in this place of death and destroyed hopes, the Weave felt as thin and tattered as a gauze scarf. Still, the power was there though I had to strain to unleash it. I lobbed a couple of fireballs at the dark swarm. There was none of the popping and hissing you'd get from frying living creatures—and no screams—but it was still satisfying to watch them burn. I felt a bit like Qara.

But the weakness in the Weave frightened me. When the King of Shadows escaped his imprisonment, would the Mere become a place of dead magic? Would the Shadow Weave supplant the Weave itself? Was that even possible? I'd only been interested in the practical arts and my theory was weak. I needed Sand or even Aldanon to explain this to me. I wished I had thought to ask these questions of the historian Balaur when I was in the ruins of Arvahn.

Between us, Zhjaeve and I wiped out the shadows before the men had crossed the river. When Ammon walked near me, I could feel his energies seething under his skin. If the change in the Weave affected him, he did not say. His head was up and his eyes flicked about. He was a daunting man in this state of hyper-alertness, scarcely human at all.

He did make me feel safer though.

I led Zhjaeve to the blasted spot she had told me once was sacred. Sacred! Obviously she and I did not share the same definition of the word.

But there was power here and I could feel it now more clearly than I ever had. Had something changed within me? Was it the eight shards I now carried? Had they, along with the ninth shard in my chest, reached some mystical number or mass to trigger this effect? Or was it a reaction to the shadow that now claimed the town? At any rate, when I stepped onto the dark scar, power passed through my feet and up into my body. It did not feel warm or cold; it was not the buzz of electricity or the living charge of the Weave. I couldn't describe the sensation of the power but it rippled up through me like the toll of a bell. My voice caught in my throat. My sword fell from my hand and I dropped to my knees. I threw out my hands to keep from smacking the ground with my face and the power intensified.

"Stay back," Zhjaeve said behind me, a warning to the men, I supposed. "Let her find her balance."

I thought the sensation would pass but it didn't. I stayed on all fours a long moment, all but panting from the strain, until at last I gave up on the idea that the feeling was going to go away. At least I became reasonably certain I wouldn't vomit or soil myself.

"Mystra's Breath," I whispered. I tried to rock back on my heels. It felt like I was trying to move through thick cream. "What…is it?"

Zhjaeve pushed lightly on my shoulders.

"Sit," she said. "Let the singing of the shards fill you. Their voice is powerful here, for this is the spot where the blade was unmade and it still holds some of the blade's strength. The shattering of the blade against the shadow caused a wound upon the land. You feel this wound cry out for healing." Her hands steadied me. I sat on the damp ground. She knelt before me, leaning forward and staring into my eyes.

"Is your will here, Kalach-Cha?"

"I…am not certain what you mean." My voice was as thin and reedy as that of a scared child.

"The Blade of Gith is not simply a thing of pieces. When you bring the shards together, your will is what makes it complete. Your mind must be focused and clear. Your thoughts and your heart will be the furnace upon which the blade may flow."

"My heart…" I looked up at Ammon, whose eyes searched the mists for danger. His head turned and he stared down at me. His eyes were fierce and his lips were set in an uncompromising line. There was no reassurance in that severe look but neither was there any doubt. If any heart was a furnace, then surely one burned inside his chest. Despite the daily training and meditations I had received from the githzerai from the day Sir Nevalle had brought us both to Crossroad Keep, my will was weak pot-metal to his adamantine. Yet he had told me that his will had failed and the blade had shattered.

Surely Tyr laughs at such irony.

Or maybe not.

"Pray for me, Casavir." I didn't turn to look for him; I was certain he was at my back. With prompt obedience he began. I heard his words, calm and measured and familiar, and I shifted to sit more comfortably on the ground. An expression of disdain or contempt passed over Ammon's face.

"It is not the gods we should turn to now," he said. "Prayer is for the weak-minded and those who lack direction." He was looking over my head, straight at Casavir no doubt, but Casavir's voice did not falter.

"Yet what is the Ritual of Purification but a prayer to unmake the Guardian?" I said. "The priest Annaeus inscribed the words on the statues of the Triune Goddess to remind us of that. You have undergone the ritual not once but twice and have felt…" My words slowed and I gaped up at Ammon. "But you didn't. Did you? That first time when you fought the King of Shadows—you hadn't performed the ritual."

My words were a statement. The question was in my eyes. The answer was in his.

"The githyanki did not know of it. They did not have the benefit of your githzerai spy's omniscience, it would seem." He cut his eyes towards Zhjaeve. "Neither did Nolaloth." His jaw tightened with suppressed anger. "The Still Lord told me that Gith's Blade could wound the King of Shadows and I thought that would be enough!" His hands opened and closed and suddenly I could smell hot iron, a scent Ammon sometimes gave off when he was agitated. "He did not tell me…and I neglected to ask if anything else was required. I only learned of the ritual recently when I…" He stared off in the distance a moment as if he heard something. "When I escaped my imprisonment," he finally said.

There was no surprise in Zhjaeve's eyes at this revelation. No doubt she had figured it out some time ago.

"You were deliberately misled," Casavir said. "Your _allies_ meant for you to fail." Ammon's eyes flashed with fury but his mouth clamped shut and he made no reply.

Perhaps it was Casavir's prayer that calmed me or perhaps it was simply the realization that, unlike Ammon, my allies meant for me to succeed. I had something Ammon had always lacked. I took a deep breath. There was a rotten scent overlying the peaty richness of the Mere and I knew that this wrongness would spread throughout what had been the Illefarn lands if not checked. The Weave would be torn asunder and perhaps the Shadow Weave would take its place.

This was unacceptable.

"I am ready," I told Zhjaeve. Her veil hid all of her face but her eyes but I could still sense her warm approval.

"Take the shards and hold them in your hands," Zhjaeve said. She sat cross-legged in front of me, so close that our knees were touching. My hands felt clumsy as I fumbled the sack of shards out of my tunic and unwrapped them one by one. The shards were warm from being kept so close to my skin but they glistened with a cool white light. We had all suffered much to reach this time and place, to collect these eight jagged pieces.

"The knowing of how to mend this blade lies within you," she said. "Grasp the hilt. Close your eyes, if that helps you focus, and hear not just my words, but the meaning behind them." What Zhjaeve called the hilt (now missing whatever pommel, guard or tassel it had once had) was Ammon's shard, the one that had been passed between Lord Tavorick and his cronies in Nasher's court. How they had ever gotten their greedy fingers on it was still a mystery to me. It felt rough and uncomfortable in my hand.

Instead of closing my eyes, I stared down at the shards in my lap. With every slight movement of my body, with every breath I took, the light shifted hypnotically. Zhjaeve spoke quietly of Zerthimon, who had forged this blade for Gith so long ago, before the Pronouncement of Two Skies, before the People had been divided. She had told me this story before. Her words were soothing and familiar.

"Gith knew war and the paths of power," the githzerai said softly. "Her will and her blade were as one. Gith was but one but her strength was such that it caused others to know their own strength."

My left hand caressed the shards. They were stronger now, it was true. They were stronger together. Their power resonated from being together.

"The will and the hand must be as one. Know that there is nothing in all the Worlds that can stand against unity. When all know a single purpose, when all hands are guided by one will and all act with the same intent, the Planes themselves may be moved. Many in unison can accomplish more than many alone."

The light of the shards winked and flickered as Zhjaeve's words flowed over me. Circles of meaning, she always spoke of circles of meaning. She wanted her words to circle my heart, to find their meaning there, where the ninth shard was lodged.

"Here the sword was sundered, broken upon shadow, yet it still is more than a thing of pieces. The blade has a knowing of itself and it also has a knowing of its enemy. And this knowing is within your heart as well. All that was scattered will be made whole again by the heart that guides the will."

There was a stirring in the shadow around us, like fireflies glowing pale in the mist above the ground.

"Tyr's blessing upon us," I heard Casavir say in soft wonderment. The points of light rose shining from the dead earth. Like slow and stately fireflies, they flew towards me and circled my head like a floating wreath. They were shards—bits of the sword too small to be easily seen or recovered, no doubt blown deep into the earth when the sword shattered. There were _dozens_ of them. The smallest was about the size of the nail on my pinky and the largest was the size of my thumb. All these years they had laid buried in the muck and now they had come to the call of the blade.

They had come to _my_ call. They had answered _my_ will. If I stood, would they follow me like the Tears of Selune? They would. I was their moon and I _knew_ that they would. The breeze raised by my thoughts sent them whirling around my head like a handful of leaves.

Elation ran through me. Forged by Zerthimon, wielded by Gith, and now the blade had come to me—and it had come for one purpose. I could feel the blade's will and it was my will. We both knew the King of Shadows. He had wounded us, shattered us and left us for dead. But we were not dead. It was our will to wound him as he had wounded us. It was our will to shatter him.

"There are three in shadow, but two shall walk in the light," Zhjaeve said. Her voice droned soothingly on, perhaps repeating the vow she had made me beside the broken wall of Crossroad Keep. The words were no longer important for their meaning was plain. I knew that her will was joined to mine. She walked in my thoughts and I could feel the warmth of her presence like a mother's protective arms wrapped around me. But this time the loving arms did not turn me away from the battle, shielding me from it. This time, she turned me to face the shadow.

"Neither hatred nor fear will serve you against our enemy. Know that what is required from you is no more and no less than your total resolve to put an end to him."

I rose to my feet as fire ran through me. There must have been pain since it forced a scream out of my mouth but my heart felt ecstasy. The shards in my lap flew up past my face and the hilt in my hand burned like the hot end of a poker. Silver poured before me in a scalding sheet and I was blinded by its light. I felt a weight in my hand that was not there before.

"The Blade of Gith," I heard Ammon say with more satisfaction than I think I had ever heard from him, up to and including the night he had made me a woman. He took two steps toward me and his tone changed. "But...why does it look like this?"

"The blade has molded itself to the need of the Kalach-Cha," Zhjaeve said. She still had that proud mommy sound in her voice, and it was untouched by Ammon's consternation. I blinked furiously. My eyes were full of tears and I could see little but white spots and afterimages. The sword glowed like 

it was forged from light itself. The grip had shifted to better fit my hand. It wasn't until my vision fully returned that I understood Ammon's reaction.

I had fully expected the blade to appear whole and perfect. It didn't. Despite the glittering throng that had joined us, we still didn't have all the shards. Those that were missing were still missing, leaving a ghostly outline behind. There were places it looked like you could poke your finger right through the blade. (I wasn't ready to try that experiment just yet.) And the individual shards had not welded themselves together into a perfect shining whole. The image that leaped to my mind was that some child had dropped his mother's favorite vase and had stuck the pieces back together with clay and spit.

"Well," I said. "How about that." I gave the sword a tiny little shake. Nothing rattled or fell off. So that was good. I tried a short gentle swing. Despite its appearance, the blade was as light and quick as a rapier.

"Doubt not," Zhjaeve said. I swung around to look at her. Her veil hid her features but I could have sworn…was she _laughing_ at me?

Weeds and brush grew thickly near the river bank. They were all dead now, it seemed. Right in front of me was a stand of cattails. Growing up, I'd been served cattail shoots at every possible meal throughout the spring and into the early summer. They're not bad but if I never eat another I'll die happy. I swished my blade through the tough stalks. The edge was sharp enough to send the fluffy seed heads flying. Interesting. I took a couple of quick steps and chopped at a sapling a bit thicker than my wrist. A slight shock ran up my arm and the blade sheared right through the trunk. I'd spent more effort slicing cheese. It was my turn to laugh.

"I cannot _wait_ for Khelgar to see this! His eyes are going to bug out of his head." Casavir gave me one of his rare smiles but it disappeared when Ammon whirled to face the burnt-out shell of Pitney Lannon's house.

"Be wary," the warlock growled.

We had company.


	17. A Date with a Reaver

_Author's Note: Ah, battle scenes. You either love them or you hate them. I guess I wouldn't play games like NWN2 if I didn't have a certain love for a fight but if you don't feel the same, well…you might just want to wait for the next chapter! _:)

**Chapter 17…A Date with a Reaver**

The shadows thickened and swirled, rising from the dead grass and shrubs. A deep voice muttered from the deepest shadows that clung to the partially collapsed timbers of the Lannon home and suddenly flames roared behind us. Fire elementals—big scary ones, that towered as tall as the trees. Great. Expecting to battle an army of zombies and other undead, I'd prepared fire damage spells and now I was caught flat-footed. I wondered if someone had counted on that or if I was simply inept.

The wet grass smoldered pungently. Heat and glaring light cast our own shadows before us to mingle with the unnatural shadows that approached. The elementals formed a rough semicircle at our rear, cutting off any retreat. Not that I was planning to go anywhere just yet. It looked like I had an assignation with the shadow reaver who strode toward me, a staff held negligently in one hand.

For a moment he stood before us in silence. His skull, wreathed in sickly flames that gave no heat, was incapable of much in the way of expressiveness but there was gloating contempt in his voice.

"How does it feel to be home, Jess Shard-Bearer?"

It gave me a chill to hear my name come so familiarly from his mouth. My own reaction angered me. He canted his head a bit to the side, looking me up and down, and that bit of calculated impertinence angered me too.

The thud of heavy footsteps sounded behind the reaver. He was joined by two blade golems. Like most golems, they were brainlessly relentless, possessing little in the way of tactics or guile—yet they walked with more speed than one would expect from a construct. Those long-dead Illefarn mages sure knew their craft. Each golem wielded its blade arm with something that approached grace and there was but a hint of jerkiness to show they had been constructed and not hatched out on some exotic insectoid plane.

I hadn't expected to run into golems here in the Mere. Surely this was the wrong terrain for them, yet here they were, and they didn't seem particularly discommoded by the softness of the ground. If I could lead them off into the swamp, I could mire them in the mud but the fire elementals behind me put a halt to that notion.

Hells, hells, hells.

"Did you enjoy the welcome my master prepared for you?" the reaver asked. Fear and anger had sharpened my senses. He had been one of the Arcane Brotherhood in life and a powerful practitioner of the Art, I judged, but now the wrongness flowed from him. Like master, like thrall. I could feel the strain in the Weave as he passed through it, his attachment to the Shadow Weave floating and flapping behind him like a corpse shroud worn as a cloak. I felt the power of the Blade of Gith throbbing through my hand. The sword was a-thirsting for a taste of him.

"Are you struck dumb, Jess Shard-Bearer? Perhaps you have words for your old friends?" And more shadows stepped forward, wearing familiar faces. Among them were Georg Redfell and a few of the men and women who had shared militia training with me. These were lies meant to distract, I firmly told myself. I kept my gaze on the reaver.

"Stall them if you can," Ammon said very quietly behind me. He had shrouded himself in darkness but I did not know if he could hide himself from the sight of the shadows. Stalling them so Ammon could read the reaver's True Name was a fine idea. Stalling them so I could come up with some kind of battle plan was good too but I felt totally hollowed out—bereft of words, bereft of thoughts. Slowly I raised my sword and took a step forward.

"Is that the famed blade?" the reaver asked. He gave it a long look and then…he chuckled. For some reason, I hadn't thought the undead had any sense of humor. "I am astonished, truly astonished." He laughed harder and then turned to Zhjaeve and gave her a shallow bow, stiff with mockery. "Is this pretty bit of filigree your doing, gith? And to think that Black Garius was so concerned about the shards and oh so concerned that you held some secret knowledge that could undo our plans. All that wasted time interrogating you, enjoyable as it was—it makes me laugh to think on it."

"I think you will find its edge more than a match for shadow and mere words," Zhjaeve said coldly. "Will you test it, thrall?"

In the random way that my mind worked, it suddenly occurred to me that to any githzerai (or githyanki, given their shared history) the word 'thrall' must be one of the lowest of epithets.

"I think this blade will be of little use without the Shard-Bearer to hold it together," the reaver said. "But by all means, let us test it."

Zhjaeve could handle the shadows. I had to protect Ammon while he worked his way through the list of names, found the proper one, and then read it out. That left Casavir for everything else—the golems, the elementals, and the reaver himself.

No, that wasn't going to work.

We were outnumbered but if the shadow reaver could call elementals, so could we. I had begged and pleaded for Sand to teach me how to summon them and he had refused, saying I had neither the discipline nor the skill to cast such advanced spells. Then I had begged and pleaded for a summoning scroll or two and again he had refused.

"Using a scroll is not like activating a wand, my dear girl," he had told me. "You should never cast from a scroll a spell you don't thoroughly understand. The slightest error in pronunciation or the smallest deviation in the positioning of your hands will be disastrous."

"More disastrous than getting myself killed in battle?" I had asked.

"Possibly," he had sniffed. And that was that.

But the idea was still a good one and although I couldn't pull it off, Zhjaeve could. She knew more of the planes and their denizens than Sand and I put together.

"Call an air elemental!" I shouted to her and I pointed to the blazing elementals and then waved towards the river. Her eyes widened as she grasped my thought.

The fire elementals couldn't cross water and perhaps that was why the reaver had summoned them between us and the river. If we'd been closer, she could have called a water elemental—although with the river being tainted, I wasn't sure what would happen. Having our own elemental turn on us when we were already outnumbered—now that would be bad.

Zhjaeve began the spell. Now I had to keep the shadows off both her and Ammon and I wasn't at all sure how I was going to do so. I was not Qara, to fling fireballs at our own feet when I doubted they'd do much good and I was totally blank on what else to do. Golems are notoriously resistant to magic so targeting them directly didn't seem wise. I lunged toward the nearest shadow and though my sword passed right through it, it shrank away from me as if in pain. The other shadows hesitated to approach my shining blade.

There was a rending sound—a scream of wind that almost deafened me—my robe whipped about my knees—and an elemental tore its way from the Plane of Air. It was _huge_. I felt a brief pang of envy. Sand was really going to _have_ to teach me this spell. The wind shrieked, drowning out everyone's voice but apparently it heard Zhjaeve's command, or perhaps it had enough sentience to come up with the same idea I had. The elemental roared towards the fire elementals, forming a massive whirlwind, and it swept them away towards the river.

But there was no time for congratulations (or to watch them drown) because the two golems converged on Casavir or rather, he ran in front of them as they came my way. He struck one a mighty blow on the knee that almost knocked it off its feet but the other one surged past him and lumbered towards Zhjaeve. Her attention was now on the shadows, which seemed to fear her despite the fact that she held no holy symbol. Presumably they could sense her power over their kind. At any rate, she seemed unaware of the danger she was in. I ran forward and intercepted the golem's blade.

It was fortunate that I held the sword in a two handed grip for the shock of the blow ran up my arms and rattled my teeth. Still, the blade held and I held and that was good. The golem's strength knocked me back a step and my foot sank into a wet hole. I didn't fall but I couldn't make a counterstroke. I tried to bind the blade so the githzerai could get out of the way. I wasn't good enough and she wasn't quick enough. The golem hit Zhjaeve in the head with its free fist and she fell with a moan.

Shadows moved silently towards me. They had dropped their false faces, the better to hide themselves, I suspected. I heard the shadow reaver shout but I didn't think it was a spell. More likely, it was directions to the golems, for when the golem disengaged from my blade it ignored Zhjaeve and swung at me. I extracted my foot from the hole in time to gracelessly tumble away—only to find myself surrounded by shadows.

Somewhere behind me I heard Ammon's voice, a steady strum of power. Presumably he had found the proper name and was calling upon it but by the gods, I wished he would read faster. There was no way I could hold back all these shadows and the golem too.

Or could I? Mystra's breath, I'd almost forgotten the Ritual powers! I croaked out the words that called the Cleansing Nova and fire flared in a golden circle around me. It seemed to have little effect on the golem (no surprise there) but the shadows jerked and writhed in the flames. And yet…the nova had damaged them but had not destroyed them. They moved in closer still and I could feel the temperature drop from the chill of their presence.

Perhaps I hadn't tried hard enough. I called out the words again, this time exerting my will consciously and…nothing happened. Nothing at all. I pushed back a whimper of despair—for truly I had thought the Cleansing Nova would be devastating. How many times had Zhjaeve stressed the importance of the Ritual of Purification? This was our mighty weapon against the King of Shadows! It was meant to be the salvation of us all. If the ritual didn't give me the strength to destroy even one of the shadow thralls, how could I be expected to face their master?

And if the ritual was so powerless, how was I supposed to believe that the sword would serve me any better?

Perhaps my thought was clear upon my face for the shadow reaver's laughter boomed out.

"A poorly forged blade and a poorly forged hero," he said. "We have little to fear from either, I see."

There was a loud crash and the golem facing me suddenly jerked and fell to one knee. Casavir had run up behind it and slammed the back of its leg with his hammer. The golem levered itself to its feet and its great torso twisted. Casavir blocked its blade with his shield. The other golem limped forward and Casavir was pinned between the two of them. He was panting for breath. Zhjaeve still hadn't moved but I thought I heard her voice, low and pained, but speaking with reassuring control.

The shadow reaver shouted again and the golems abandoned Casavir once more and turned to me. This wasn't totally bad because I took several quick steps away from Zhjaeve and away from Ammon and they followed me. I slashed out at the shadow that reached for me but there was nothing there. My eyes had been tricked by the natural shadow from a tree. Like a fool, I'd wasted a stroke for nothing.

I had assumed Zhjaeve was healing herself but suddenly light flared and the shadows froze—and then they were simply gone. She'd destroyed them. But I had no moment to breathe in relief for the golems were pressing me hard. Suddenly Casavir muscled his way in front of me. I wasn't sure how he had moved so quickly but there he was, trying to protect me with his body. He took a punch that had been aimed at me. The blow landed on his pauldron with appalling force. His hammer flew out of his hand but it was held by the strap around his wrist, so he wasn't completely disarmed. He staggered backward, stepped on my foot, and we both went down. He was on top and his weight almost knocked the breath out of me. His back plate dug painfully into my chest and gut.

His shield came up almost immediately and the golem's blade smashed against it. Then Casavir was on his feet, hammer back in his hand, acting as if he had not been hurt—which I knew was very unlikely. His armor was good but not that good. I rose to my knees, gasping, and as soon as I had breath I started to cast.

There was one spell I knew quite well now. In fact Sand had warned me that I loved it to the point of abuse. He claimed that he regretted teaching it to me and told me he was tempted to slap me with a feeble-mind spell so I wouldn't cast it morning, midday and night. (This was an exaggeration and I was pretty sure he'd been jesting.) At any rate, I had little fear I would flub either the words or the motions. Pulling so much power out of the Weave in its tattered state was difficult and left me feeling weak and sick—or perhaps it was simply the King of Shadow's curse upon this place that drained me. I heard the ringing of a blade against armor—Casavir had been hit hard—but I kept my focus.

The weakness passed as fresh strength and power slammed into me with the finesse of a charging bull. All the fatigue from strained muscles and exertion was washed away. It was if I'd just awoken from a totally refreshing night's sleep. No, it was more like I'd discovered I was really Khelgar's long lost sister and had just donned the Ironfist gear in all its glory. I felt _fearsome_. I lost all feel for the Weave and all of my ability to cast spells but I didn't care. This was Tenser's Transformation and it was surely sweeter than any potion I'd ever tasted or any drug I'd ever heard described. The spell made me neither invulnerable nor invincible but it made me _feel_ like I was. That was probably a mixed blessing, but I didn't care about that either. I lunged towards the nearest golem. Casavir had been concentrating on their knees and if he was convinced that was their weak spot, well, that was good enough for me.

I hacked away with all the ferocity of a piss-drunk orc interrupted on his way to a looting party. Sparks flew from my blade as I hit hard and then danced away from the golem's long vicious strokes. I kept hitting. One of its swings nicked my side and ripped a gash along my hip but I barely felt it. The transformation had made my skin tougher than the sole of a Harborman's boot. I was pretty mad about the damage to my new robe though and I attacked with fresh fury.

Gith's blade had just about chewed through the golem's knee joint when the meaning of the shadow reaver's shouting penetrated my brain. I didn't even have time to curse as I attempted to scramble backward. Then his spell hit me. The strength drained from my legs with shocking speed and my arms burned like fire. That damned bit of undead Luskan offal had dispelled my transformation.

And then his double-damned golem threw itself on top of me.

I was crushed. I was pinned. And I was mad as fire. I fought to crawl out from under the golem but it was too heavy. It had fallen almost sideways across me and I couldn't move my left arm at all; in fact it felt like the golem's weight had driven my shoulder into the soft wet ground. Its bladeless hand lay across my sword arm so that I could move no more than my wrist and fingers. I couldn't reach a potion and I had no breath for a spell.

The golem hadn't landed on my head so at least I could see a little. I got a good view of Casavir's distressed glance and saw how that moment of inattention cost him. His golem could barely stand but it could still swing its blade. Casavir took the hit on his shield but he wasn't ready for it. The shield broke and so, at a guess, did his arm.

I fought even harder to squirm my way out from under the golem. My field of view gave me no sight of Zhjaeve and it worried me greatly that I did not hear her voice. But I did hear a most welcome sound: Ammon must have finished reading the True Name. His power blasted into Casavir's golem, drenching it with acid that ate through its already weakened armor with uncanny speed. The construct's knees gave out first and it fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

I didn't have time to get excited because suddenly the shadow reaver loomed over me. Did he know he was now vulnerable? Not that I was exactly in a strong position to do anything about it. He planted the end of his staff into the hollow of my throat and pushed down hard enough to make me choke. There is something particularly unpleasant about getting hit in the throat.

"Hold or I'll kill her now," he said. Presumably the others stopped as commanded. I didn't know why because surely he was going to kill me anyway. He bent down to look into my face.

"Let's end this farce," he said. "Give me the sword." I tightened my grip on it.

"Get this grubby chunk of junk off me and I will," I said. I'd happily give it to him point first. He just shook his head a little and turned so he could stamp on my wrist. At least he was wearing shoes (rather fancy ones, I noticed) and not heavy boots. I guess I should have been grateful for that. I yelped when he ground his muddy heel into my wrist and I felt my grip start to loosen.

By all the gods, after everything we had suffered to forge this blade, I was not going to lose it now. Not to this thrice-cursed shadow reaver. Not to the King of Shadows. Not to _anyone_.

Rage burst through me like molten steel. I thought my heart would rip itself from my chest and then…and then…the Blade of Gith blew apart. It exploded into dozens of shining sharp pieces which launched themselves straight at the shadow reaver. They glittered like broken glass and they cut him to shreds.


	18. The Shaman's Price

_Author's Note: I rarely write to music since I prefer to listen to the voices in my head (that way I know when they tell me what to do, mwahaha). However some madness had me crank up Steppenwolf and Golden Earring this morning (sequentially, not simultaneously—I'm not that whacked…yet) and, well, this chapter is the result. It shouldn't be here, it wasn't planned but…here it is. Please accept my apologies in advance for any incoherence, LOL._

**Chapter 18…The Shaman's Price**

"No," Ammon said firmly and I didn't try to argue with him. He was right, of course. Even with his skeleton minion to help, there was no time to build a pyre, let alone gather up the bodies of the villagers. Zhjaeve was still unconscious; Casavir's arm was badly broken and he didn't dare take a healing potion until the bones were set straight. Neither Ammon nor I knew how to do so. And we had to get out of the Claimed Lands before what little strength any of us had left drained away.

So I didn't argue. Truth be told, I didn't have the energy. Instead I bound Casavir's arm into a sling as best I could. I tried not to hurt him but his arm was a mess. It made me feel a little sick to look at it and by the time I was done with the sling, he had turned white to the lips. He swayed on his feet and stumbled into me. I braced myself to take his weight, but he managed to steady himself by grabbing my shoulder. Ammon and I then placed Zhjaeve as gently as possible in the skeleton's arms and we trudged back to the Illefarn ruins.

I don't know how long the return trip took. It seemed forever. My boots felt like lead and I ached all over despite the healing potion I slugged down. How Casavir endured the pain of his injuries, I have no idea. If he had fallen, I'm not sure how I would have gotten him back on his feet so I stayed close by his side, ready to catch him. Ammon kept an eye out for the undead but nothing attacked us.

I don't know what we would have done if the portal had closed but Zhjaeve had somehow spelled it to remain open for us. Two of the Greycloaks were waiting on the other side. I brushed away their exclamations and questions and followed them back to camp. Night had fallen while we were in the Claimed Lands. I cast a light so we wouldn't trip on the steep trail.

The Greycloaks had set up our tents but they were so cramped that it would be difficult to tend anyone inside. I dragged her bedroll out onto the grass and the skeleton placed Zhjaeve on top. The side of her head was swollen and half of her hair hung in sticky bloody clumps.

"What do we do?" I asked Casavir. One of our Greycloaks, Oloven, had been a horse trader before he joined us. He had some skill at healing beast and man. I had hoped he could set Casavir's arm but the nervous look he gave me when I asked him to look at it was not at all reassuring.

"I will try to heal her," Casavir said, but he had hesitated long enough that I knew he wasn't sure he could.

"No," I said. Surely a man who could scarcely stand was incapable of complex healing spells. "We need to get you fixed up first. Ammon. Ride to the orc camp and bring me their shaman."

He took this curt order without a blink and I knew he wouldn't return without Ilrah, not being one to take no for an answer. While we waited, the Greycloaks brought me and Casavir hot sweet tea. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was until I took the first swallow. They also brought me a rag and a bucket of lukewarm water and I cleaned Zhjaeve's wound as best I could. I doubted she would be happy to have her veil removed but it couldn't be helped.

I stared down at her face, slack in unconsciousness, the bright fires of her curiosity and compassion gone to wherever they go when the body's furnace is banked. We had traveled together and eaten together enough that I knew her veil covered no scar or disfigurement. I had often wondered why she wore it but now I had a thought. For, looking at her alien features, I did not see the Zhjaeve I had come to know. The knowing of her was in her eyes—eyes that had seen so much and had cared so much. With those calm eyes closed, her face was too much like the crazed githyanki who had tried to kill me again and again.

Not long after I had cleaned her up, Ammon returned. With him were Ilrah Broken-Ribs and a gray-haired orc woman I didn't know. She carried a large rush basket. Ammon must have explained the situation because the woman immediately went to Casavir and plopped her basket down in front of him. I saw splints, bandages and a jar that probably held salve. I hoped it wasn't poisonous to humans.

She motioned for Casavir to lie down. He exchanged a dubious look with me but did as she wanted. Her hands were big and rough and her odor was…at least as strong as mine at the moment. She seemed sure of what she was doing though. I could only hope that her competence was real and not assumed. And I hoped that orc physiology was close enough to human that she wouldn't set the arm wrong.

Meanwhile, Ilrah crouched beside Zhjaeve. It didn't seem probable that he had ever seen a githzerai before but he showed no shock at her appearance, at least none that I could decipher. He peeled back her eyelids, listened to her breathing and probed at the swelling on her head. He rocked back on his heels and looked up at me.

"She will die tonight," he said.

I went blank for a moment. Then I knelt down beside him.

"She needs healing." He just looked at me. There was an air of expectation to him that I did not quite understand. I certainly couldn't read much expression off his face, so like a wild beast to my eyes.

"She is a healer herself," I said. "If she can be brought to consciousness…"

"It is too late."

"But…can't you heal her?" His eyes, black and lustrous like an animal, squinted in my mage light.

"Gruumsh One-Eye gives me power to heal orcs." Casavir's muffled scream caught my attention and I whipped my head around. Oloven was holding Casavir's elbow while the woman manipulated his arm. Suddenly his whole body went limp. It looked like Casavir had finally fainted. Ilrah grunted. "Good."

"Can you heal her?" I asked. His unblinking black stare disconcerted me.

"One-Eye demands his price. You won't want to pay."

"Name it."

"Blood. One-Eye always wants blood." A chill ran down my back. Ilrah's tongue actually lolled out for a moment, like a dog laughing.

"Well, I've spilled my share of blood. How much?" I asked. "A drop of blood, a cup of blood? A bucket full? Does anything have to die or is the blood enough?"

"There is power in death."

"We will hunt for you or…you can kill one of our horses." I'd gladly offer up Ammon's demonic steed, although he would throttle me for saying so. Ilrah shook his head.

"For this," he said, looking at the githzerai, "He will want something special—the blood of an enemy. An elf."

"Sorry, I'm fresh out of elves." For the first time, I was glad that Elanee wasn't with us.

"A dwarf then."

"No, I will not offer anyone's life. Take the horse. You can have two of them." His heavy brows dropped in a most alarming frown. "You…you can have them all."

He snorted but he didn't walk away. I realized then that we were negotiating.

"I said you would not pay."

"I can offer human blood." But what made blood special? What would appeal to a god of orcs? It occurred to me that Ammon, who claimed an infernal ancestry gave him his warlock powers, must have special blood indeed. I eyed him speculatively. But would he shed it for Zhjaeve? And what would I do if he refused? I couldn't order him to open a vein after all. Well, I could order him to do it but I couldn't enforce that order.

"My blood is special," I said with more confidence than I felt. "Look at my sword." I drew it slowly from its scabbard and Ilrah stared at its shimmering mystery, the patchwork of shards. "You can feel its power, yes? There is a piece of this sword in my heart and its magic runs all through my blood."

He held out his hand towards the sword but didn't touch it. He shook his head a little and shifted as if he was going to stand. And walk away.

"I am no enemy of yours, Ilrah," I said. "But the Eyegougers and the Bonegnashers have no cause to love me. They call me Orc-Slayer." That last was pretty much a lie but it sounded good. "I have killed many orcs—more than I can count or remember. I helped kill your chief's brother. Surely your god would find my blood to his liking."

As far as that argument went, Gruumsh might prefer Casavir's blood but I wasn't prepared to offer it up without his consent. And I was reasonably certain he would never consent to offer anything to an evil god, even something so basic and simple as a little blood. Even with Zhjaeve's life at stake. He would be unwilling to compromise and so the job fell to me. That was as it should be, I supposed. The gods knew I was no paladin.

Ilrah still didn't look convinced.

"Wait," I said. "I want to show you something." I ran into my tent and yanked my Neverwinter Nine tunic out of my saddlebag. I unrolled it and showed him the great staring eye that some poor seamstress had strained her own eyesight embroidering. I didn't know a lot about Gruumsh One-Eye but Grobnar had told me that an eye was his symbol. Ilrah's startled reaction made me hopeful.

"My king gave me this," I said, almost babbling. I was never a good negotiator. "It is very rare and special. You may have it." I thrust it into his hands, wondering what Nevalle would say if he saw me. "Heal her."

"I need a taste to see if One-Eye will accept your blood," he said.

Yes! Sold! I held out my hand but he was looking down, where blood still seeped from the cut on my hip. He leaned forward, dipped two fingers in my blood and brought them to his lips.

I hadn't realized he meant that literally. Ack. He smacked his lips as if savoring the taste and then gave me a slow, excessively toothy grin. He reached for my side again.

"What in the Nine Hells do you think you are doing?" Ammon asked from behind me. I almost jumped out of my skin.

"The shaman requires blood to heal Zhjaeve," I told him.

"Your blood? I think not." He looked from me to Ilrah and his face was hard.

"He says she will die." His eyes flicked to Zhjaeve and I could practically see him run the calculation. The sword was forged and in my hand; did we need her any further? But he was smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself.

"It would be best if the Greycloaks didn't see this," I added, not that I was exactly sure how the shaman was going to take my blood. But really, what good way was there? And I was profoundly thankful that Casavir was out of it. "Could you…?" And I flapped my hand vaguely towards them.

"I will take care of it," he snapped. He stalked over to Oloven and the others, his back stiff with protest or irritation. Whatever he said had them all craning their necks in my direction. He strode back and growled something infernal-sounding. A roiling cloud of darkness formed behind him, obscuring us from the soldiers' view.

"Proceed," he said. He stood over us disapprovingly as Ilrah gestured for me to lie on the ground. The shaman knelt beside me and pulled my robe up out of the way, baring my belly and the cut on my hip. I'm not sure what I would have done if he had tried to pull my pants down but instead he grasped the torn edges of the fabric and ripped them further apart. The wound had almost stopped bleeding. I thought he might tear it open with his claws like he had torn my pants, but instead he closed his eyes. He cut me with a spell, with cold and guttural words.

I screamed.

I've been cut with knives and swords and it hurts. I've been shot with arrows and bashed with fists, sticks, rocks and big pieces of metal. They all hurt. I've been burned with magical and mundane flame, dragon fire and acid. I thought I knew a lot about pain but Ilrah taught me something new. His power, or the power of his god, ripped through me like a knife, like fire, like a bludgeoning weapon all at once and it hurt, hurt, hurt. My back arched and my hips came off the ground as agony seized me.

My skin split and blood poured out, down my side and onto the thirsty ground.

Ilrah leaned over me. He wore a necklace of carved bone beads which clicked when it fell across my chest. His breath was on my face, hot and stinking like a dog. He laughed at my expression and then pulled back. Suddenly his face was pressed against my side and his tusks grazed my skin. I felt his tongue in my wound as he lapped my blood like the beast he was. I screamed again. He raised his face and it was wet with my blood. His hands were wet too. Something monstrous moved in his eyes and I knew I had the attention of his god. I didn't want it. I really, really didn't want it. Gruumsh's dark power pressed against me and I trembled.

"Get on with it," Ammon said harshly. "Heal the gith."

Zhjaeve lay close beside us. Ilrah crawled over to her and took her face in his bloody hands. I pressed my hand hard to my side to try to slow the bleeding. I could feel when he called his god's power for it slid sickeningly across my skin like the embrace of a huge serpent. My heart raced and my blood poured between my fingers. Zhjaeve took one deep sobbing breath but her eyes did not open and she did not wake.

"It is done," Ilrah said.

I levered myself up on one elbow. I felt my blood run down my thigh, soaking into my pants.

"She doesn't look any better."

"Listen. She sleeps now."

I listened. Did her breathing indeed sound more natural or was that just my wishful thinking?

"Heal Jess," Ammon said. "She bleeds." Ilrah stretched to his full height. He was not large for an orc but he was taller than Ammon and much broader. His tongue came out in another of his wolfish grins.

"The blood will stop when One-Eye is sated," he said.

Ammon's eyes flashed and his hot iron smell crowded out the scent of my own blood. His voice was a threatening growl.

"You will stop this bleeding or I shall wreak such vengeance upon you and your people…"

Alarmed, I sat up and grabbed for my sword hilt. Ilrah ignored me. He held out his hand to calm Ammon.

"Women are made to bleed," he said. "Your woman will not die from it. She is strong." He gave Ammon a knowing leer and I realized that he, unlike the orc women, had not fallen into the error of thinking Ammon was my father. "She will live to bear mighty sons one day." And then he laughed. "If you should live so long, they might be yours."

* * *

"You know, it's sweet that you're so protective," I told Ammon. "Really."

He gave me a sour look. We'd finally sent the orcs home, arranged Zhjaeve to rest in one tent and Casavir in another, and got the Greycloaks settled down from their agitation at hearing my screeching.

"But surely it occurred to you that this is not the best of all possible times to antagonize the orcs."

"Orcs cannot be appeased. They only respect superior force."

"And we have that?" I asked a little doubtfully.

"We do."

Well, he seemed confident enough. I guessed that was good. The Greycloaks had offered me one of their tents but I told them I would crawl in with Zhjaeve later. I was exhausted but doubted I could sleep yet. I was almost afraid to try, for fear of nightmares. I had the feeling that Gruumsh's great malevolent eye was planning to ambush me in my dreams. I was glad Ilrah had taken my Nine tunic away with him for I never wanted to see it again.

The never-tired Ammon planned on staying up, against the chance that the orcs chose to attack. If they were going to do so, it would be at night. It would be nice if we could move on in the morning but it didn't seem at all likely that either Casavir or Zhjaeve would be able to ride and we had no wagon.

I was still in my torn robe, fragrantly fouled with mud and blood, but there seemed little point in ruining another set of clothes. Until the gash in my side closed, I was stuck with my filth. What I really wanted was a nice hot bath. Unfortunately the nearest inn was days away. Bathing in the ice cold river just wasn't the same.

"I wish you could teleport us out of here," I said. It was an idle comment but Ammon gave me a rather searching look.

"So do I." He had his back against the tree where we were sitting. I nestled in closer so I could lean on him. His arm went around my back and he passed me the water skin by his hand. I took several long swallows and let my head sink against his chest. As always, he was toasty warm.

He lifted the thick pad on my hip for a peek and then pressed it back in place. I couldn't see much of anything in the darkness but his eyes were better than mine. It was a hellishly awkward place to bandage so for now I just used the loose wad of cloth. Perhaps in the morning, when Zhjaeve woke up, she'd have a better idea. Or maybe she'd be well enough to heal it herself. The healing potions I had downed had not stopped the bleeding although it had slowed to little more than an annoying seepage.

"You haven't called me an idiot yet," I murmured. "You are being remiss in your duties."

"Why waste my breath?" he murmured back. His hand rubbed across my robe, tracing a line up my breastbone, ending with a light caress along my throat. I wondered if there was still a mark from where the shadow reaver had jabbed his staff into me, but I felt no bruise. The healing potions hadn't been totally wasted.

"Your power feels different now," Ammon said.

"A lot of things will be different now," I said, looking down at the sheathed sword on the ground by my side. He looked at it too.

"Yes."

"Will it be enough?"

We had pinned such hopes upon the sword and the Ritual powers. And they had both turned out to be different than I could possibly have anticipated. I remembered my elation when the blade forged itself and my despair when the Ritual power failed me. Dared I even voice the thought that I was shocked and maybe…disappointed?

His long fingers curved around the nape of my neck, giving me a pleasant shiver. Perhaps my power had changed but his was the same. I could almost taste it, thick and potent like sack mead.

"Are you looking for answers or reassurance?"

"I'll take whatever you can give me." I raised my face and his lips brushed mine. He smoothed the hair away from my face and kissed me again.

"It will be enough," he said.

I sighed and settled back against his chest. My eyelids drooped closed as his arms encircled me.


	19. A Curse

**Chapter 19…A Curse**

Zhjaeve woke the next morning with a low moan and it soon became clear that despite Ilrah's healing, she was far from well. She spent most of the next three days in the tent, for daylight hurt her eyes. Her mind seemed to wander; there were times when I found her murmuring to herself in her own language. The rest of the time she was very silent, answering my questions in monosyllables, if at all. Once she stared at me with startled eyes, as if she had never seen me before, and she actually jerked away from me as if I frightened her. It must be a strange and disorientating sensation, to be injured and hurting so far from home and with no one of her own race to tend to her.

She had little appetite as well. I coaxed her to eat, gave her healing potions from our dwindling supply and had her drink bark tea several times a day. That was all I knew to do.

"She is on the mend," Casavir told me, when he had crawled out of her tent after examining her. He was on the mend as well. He still kept his arm in a sling but he could use it if need be. For small things, anyway—I doubted he could hold a shield yet. If the arm pained him, he made no sign of it. "Head wounds heal at their own pace, I'm afraid."

"How long…" I started and then bit off my words. I didn't have to tell Casavir that I was anxious to return to Crossroad Keep. He knew. We all were. Ammon had been pushing me to leave her and some of the Greycloaks behind, and possibly Casavir as well. The two of us could move more swiftly than a group, he said, and he was probably correct. Splitting up didn't feel right though.

Casavir's face was calm as he looked down at me. I wondered if it was my imagination that made me see a trace of admonition in his expression. That's the problem with paladins. They make you feel guilty whether you ought to or not. Because chances are, you ought to.

Yes, I had considered leaving Zhjaeve behind. And I was still considering it. We had been too long without news from Crossroad Keep and it worried me.

"There is no way to predict when she will be ready to travel."

I nodded and tried not to let my disappointment show too clearly. I knew that if the situation was reversed, she would not leave me.

"Jess, Ammon tells me you have an open wound that troubles you."

My eyes slid away from his. The Greycloaks may have given him some garbled tale of my dealings with the orc shaman but I had said nothing. Sometimes in the night, I would wake and feel Gruumsh's eye upon me. It was just a memory or a dream but it made me feel both frightened and…ashamed. I wasn't exactly sure why.

I couldn't believe that Ammon had brought it up. What was he thinking?

"It's nothing much," I said, which was more or less a lie. My hip hurt when I walked and although the loss of blood was probably no worse than my monthly flows, there was nothing natural about this.

"May I look at it?"

"It's in a bad spot," I said, pressing my hand to my hip. I'd been raised by an elf and had little physical modesty but Casavir, I knew, felt very differently about such things. "I'll wait until Zhjaeve is able to heal…"

"Jess," Casavir said and now there was no mistaking the admonition in his voice. "Let me see." It was as if he thought I was a child afraid to have a splinter drawn.

"Fine," I snapped. "But not here. Let's not give the whole camp a show." And the idea of crawling into a tiny tent with Casavir and undressing—and having to lie down to do it—well, I'm not modest but that seemed uncomfortably intimate. Better to do this out in the open, under trees and sky.

Once we were in the cover of thick brush, I loosened the tie that held up my pants and let them drop. I pulled up my linens to expose the bandage. Casavir knelt before me with no more than a slight stiffness to show any possible embarrassment. Maybe he was just off balance because his arm was in a sling. He peeled away the thick pad that covered my injury.

What had originally been a clean cut from the golem's blade was now a ragged tear, and my skin was red and swollen. The wound wept dark tears of blood. For the first time, I noticed that there was a foul smell as well. Wonderful.

Casavir looked up at me with appalled eyes. He began the words of a healing prayer and then laid his hand gently on my hip. I winced. All around the wound, my flesh was tender like from a deep bruise.

He jerked back and stumbled to his feet.

"Jess!" he exclaimed. "You have been cursed."

I sighed.

"I thought it might be something like that." Why else would it be getting worse despite the healing potions?

"You knew this? And you said nothing? But…"

"Can you remove the curse?"

"Yes, but—Jess, how did this happen? Did the shadow reaver curse you?"

"Um. No. It wasn't him." I sighed again and told him the tale. He let out something close to a sigh of his own when I finished. He made no comment though, just closed his eyes and prayed to Tyr. He slipped his shield arm out of the sling. His hands took on a bit of a glow, hard to see in the daylight but I knew it was there. I could feel his power in the Weave, all shiny and bright. Then he touched me and I gasped and clenched my fists behind my back. Tyr's power burned in my wound like salt. Casavir's healing had never hurt me before.

Casavir snatched his hands away. My hip throbbed and I didn't have to look to see that I had not been healed. I looked anyway. If anything, my flesh was more swollen than ever. My skin was starting to curl back as if it would peel away from the muscle beneath. The blood that trickled out was almost black.

Sickened, I slapped the bandage back in place and yanked down my drawers to keep it from sliding off.

"I…cannot remove the curse," he said, sounding shaken.

"I see that," I said. Hope snatched away is worse than no hope at all. If this was Tyr's judgment upon me, then—I stifled my thought. "Can I pull up my pants now?" Anger wasn't my predominant emotion but you couldn't tell that from my voice. I didn't wait for his reply but pulled them up and knotted the tie with stiff fingers.

"It is…"

"…Tyr's will," I said. I pulled my tunic straight. "I know what you're going to say. This is justice and I brought it on myself."

He shook his head a little.

"I do not have the power to lift so strong a curse."

I noticed he hadn't exactly contradicted me. I turned away from his troubled look. Although he wasn't to blame, really, Casavir's advice had helped bring me to this point. Ever since we'd first come to this valley for the Ritual of Purification, I'd tried to treat the orcs here fairly, like, well, like people instead of beasts. I'd listened to Casavir. We could have slaughtered them like we'd slaughtered the tribes at Old Owl Well. We hadn't done that. In fact, I had helped them. I had killed the ogre mage who threatened these orcs, and although I hadn't done it for their sake, they had benefited. I had sought their permission before entering their lands. I'd even brought them gifts.

I'd bargained with their shaman in good faith and he'd _cursed_ me for it. What had Ilrah said about this wound? It would heal when Gruumsh One-Eye was sated. And I hadn't asked how long that would take, had I? Was an orc god ever sated? Ever?

So this was the justice I received for being merciful. Maybe I should have listened to Ammon instead of Casavir.

But there was nothing to be done so I spent the rest of the morning fletching arrows for our hunters. This was a task that I loathed but was good at, thanks to Daeghun's early training. (I also knew ten ways to cook swamp cabbage and the best methods for preparing brains for tanning hides. Oh, the many joys of my childhood.)

Bodo was constantly underfoot, scattering the feathers, crawling up my arm when I was trying to trim them and twice coming perilously close to knocking over the glue pot. I finally sent him to the tent to keep an eye on Zhjaeve before I was tempted to squash him. Fletching is finicky work but requires no thought, only clever fingers and the ability to tolerate the stench of the sinew and the glue. So it suited my mood fairly well but still, I was far from displeased when Ammon strode into camp from wherever he had been and beckoned for me.

Back at the keep, it was his norm to disappear for days at a time and I'd rarely had much success prying out of him where he'd been or what he'd been doing. I was now more or less trained not to ask. Although distrustful of all others, Ammon demanded a great deal of trust from me. Someday I'd call him on that.

"Do you have your riding boots on?" he asked without preliminary. "Good," he said, looking at my feet and not waiting for an answer. "Come with me."

Oloven had just finished saddling 'my' horse (it had been his before Ammon appropriated it for my use) when we reached the grassy field where the horses were kept. He gave it a wistful pat on the shoulder.

"When will you be back, Knight Captain?" he asked. I gave Ammon a questioning look.

"Probably tomorrow," he said.

I gave Ammon a really, really questioning look. I hadn't packed and I had no idea where we were going. Or why. Oloven's eyes flicked between us.

"And, er, what should I tell Sir Casavir?" he asked hesitantly. I opened my mouth but Ammon interrupted.

"Tell him we will probably be back tomorrow," he snapped. He gave me a curt gesture to mount. I shrugged and nodded for Oloven to stand back.

Now I'm very comfortable with silence. I'd grown up with it, you might say, and although I was filled with questions, I was willing to let them wait. But after we'd ridden out long enough for my stomach to start growling, I had to speak.

"We're getting close to Riverguard Keep," I told him. "When I was last here, the place was taken over by bugbears." He pulled up closer beside me.

"It is still infested with them," he said.

"I have no quarrel with Ralidor's tribe," I said slowly. "They left us in peace then." To my mind, bugbears are considerably more dangerous than orcs. Not because they are so much bigger and tougher (although they are) but because they are so much smarter. "But that doesn't mean they will welcome our company. Why are we here?"

"The horses will be safe here for now," he said, dismounting. I slid off my horse with an ache of dread in my belly. Ammon didn't like to answer questions he thought I ought to figure out on my own. I was getting a bad feeling about why we were here. Ralidor and Uthanck's tribes were rivals, judging by the bugbear corpses on display near the orc's camp. Although the orcs outnumbered the bugbears by a sizeable amount, they would surely find the defenses of this keep a hard nut to crack.

I hoped we weren't here to crack them.

Ammon called up one of his skeleton minions to watch over the horses. His Demonspawn took it in stride although my horse did an unhappy little dance step and snorted a couple of times. He didn't manage to pull up his picket though.

"You talked to Ilrah, didn't you?" I had to move quickly to keep up with Ammon's long legs and my hip pained me. Ammon frowned as he saw me limping.

"I spoke to him about your wound."

"You knew he cursed me?"

"It was a logical conclusion."

"And you knew Casavir couldn't remove the curse?"

"I saw him fail."

"You were watching that?" His face was his answer. He had seen me strip to my linens in front of Casavir and he had watched in secret? That was more than a little disturbing. "Damn it, Ammon! That's the kind of trick I'd expect from Bishop, not you." That comment earned me a frown.

"I was not spying on you."

"Yeah, right. Then why didn't you let us know you were there? All this sneaking around unseen is a bad habit, Ammon." He shrugged.

"My habits of secrecy have saved my life more than once."

"Great. Keep your habits then but don't expect me to be happy about being spied on. Do you think you could let me in on the secret of why we're here now?"

He lifted his head and turned as if he'd heard something off in the brush. I hadn't heard anything but I was willing to believe his hearing was sharper than mine.

"Get your Stoneskin on," he told me.

"Why?"

He gave me a look.

"Oh, no, I won't do it. These bugbears are no threat to us. We can't just go busting in there and attack for no reason."

"We have a reason."

It was my turn to give him a look.

"We don't have a _good_ reason." The Corpsewalker clan was no ally of mine and their enemies weren't myenemies. These were not our lands. This keep didn't belong to me and I had no need to 'liberate' it. "Is this to satisfy Gruumsh One-Eye? Did Ilrah tell you this would lift the curse?"

He nodded.

"No. It's wrong. Ilrah said the curse wouldn't kill me."

"The curse may not kill you but it will sap your strength," Ammon said. "Which leads to the same result."

"Someone will be able to take the curse off me."

"Who? When?" I made no answer because I didn't know. "What will happen when that little limp of yours worsens? Ilrah assured me that it would. Do you plan to attack the King of Shadows from a chair in Crossroad Keep?" His voice harsh, he added, "You are of no use crippled, Jess."

I stared at him in dismay.

"I know that sounds brutal but it is the truth."

"Well, I can always trust you to give it to me hard and brutal," I said angrily. "But it's still wrong. You do know that, don't you?"

"No. I don't agree. This is not a matter of right or wrong, only of necessity. This is no more immoral than killing a deer for its skin and meat. It is a brutal world we live in, Jess," he said. "You made a bargain and now you must live with the consequences. That you did not understand the price does not lift your obligation to pay. This is the only justice I have ever found and… I am sorry it disturbs you."

He put his hand on my shoulder. I wasn't angry (with him) but I wasn't much comforted either. I wished I could believe that there was nothing wrong with what we were about to do. After all, bugbears are hateful monsters. Just because these hadn't done anything wrong that I knew about, that didn't mean they hadn't done something to deserve death. It just meant they were smart enough not to get caught.

I could just imagine how well that argument would sit with Casavir.

"It's not your fault," I said. "I'm the one who got outwitted by an _orc_. Instead of doing this, why don't we ride back and attack _them_. I wouldn't mind doing that."

His grip tightened.

"Ilrah's death will not lift the curse. If anything, killing him will strengthen it." He let me go. "Get your Stoneskin on."

* * *

A well-placed fireball and a couple of Ammon's blasts pulled the sentries out of their hiding places in the courtyard. Several crossbow bolts glanced off my armored skin but the bugbears didn't have time to muster much resistance. Once the sentries were dead, with my spell-augmented strength I wrenched open the dilapidated keep door. We entered the dark building, swords drawn and magic ready.

There were two of us. There were many of them. It didn't matter. I had Ammon Jerro and the Blade of Gith. I had my outrage and my will. That was all I needed.

By the time we were done, my sword arm hung heavy with fatigue. My boots left bloody footprints on the filthy floor. But my limp was all but gone. Gruumsh, it seemed, was satiated at last.

* * *

"This is not wise," Ammon said.

"I know and I wish you'd talk me out of it." With that, I dropped my linens on top of the rest of my clothes and stepped into the icy river. I had no doubt been dirtier in my life but I had seldom felt so unclean.

It was nighttime and a moonless night at that, so I bathed by mage light. I had no soap but I did have a bit of a rag to scrub with. When I was clean enough that I could stand my own presence, I came shivering out of the water. Ammon held a blanket out for me. I would have taken it but he held on to it. He wrapped it around me to shield me a bit from the evening breeze and then he started rubbing me dry. The blanket was coarse wool, rough and itchy, but I didn't complain. I had no clean clothes to change into but I didn't complain about that either. Yet.

"Thanks for the rubdown." I gave Ammon a tooth-chattering smile. "I feel like your horse." I couldn't stop shivering.

"No," he said. "You don't." His hands slowed and his motions became much less…brisk. His eyes glittered in the mage light.

"Gods, Ammon, did you just make a jest?"

"Now does that seem likely?" He bundled me up in the blanket and picked up my untidy pile of clothes, stiff and tacky with blood. "Come lie in my blankets and I will warm you."

"That sounds wonderful," I said, following him up the river bank to our campsite and crawling into his bedroll with all speed. My filthy clothes could wait until the morning. "But I thought you disapproved of dalliance. Or am I misinterpreting your offer?"

Before I extinguished the mage light, I took one last look at my cursed wound. The curse was gone. The bleeding had finally stopped and the healing potion I had drunk had cleared up the redness and swelling. It was going to leave a truly ugly scar though—a fine orcish beauty mark.

"The word 'dalliance' implies that we are shirking our duties."

"Ah." He crawled in beside me and his arms went around my back. I slid my icy hands under his tunic and he shuddered at my touch. "Well, let me tell you, Ammon, that if you are teasing me now I will not be pleased."

A breathless interlude followed in which he presented proof that he was (at the moment anyway) completely in earnest. My teeth had stopped chattering and I was beginning to feel deliciously warm through and through.

"What of your fine speech about the necessity of avoiding attachments? This is not something I do with someone I care nothing about, you know. Were those just words?"

"They were wise words," he murmured into the curve of my neck. "But I find, after all, that I am not very wise."

* * *

The next morning, we rode straight to the orcs' camp. I'd had nothing to eat but some leathery plums out of Ammon's saddlebags and my mood was nine kinds of foul. I rode to the center of camp (scattering a couple of youngsters carrying firewood) and, not even bothering to dismount my horse, shouted for the shaman.

Uthanck came out first. He gave me and then Ammon a look that struck me as rather sly. I felt my temper continue to rise. I gave him a very curt nod, not quite trusting myself to speak.

"Ilrah Broken-Ribs!" I shouted again. According to Daeghun, I've been loud all my life but I don't believe that's true. If anything, as a child I'd been quiet and soft-spoken (for a human) but I think all mages learn to control their voice as part of their training. I did, anyway. I now have a voice that can cut across a battlefield if need be and I was certainly capable of making myself heard throughout an orc village.

Ilrah came out from behind one of the huts. If Uthanck's look had struck me as sly then Ilrah's struck me as smug. Not that an orc's face is exactly easy for me to read. But he looked up at me, high on my horse, and his lips drew back, showing an awful lot of tusk.

"Ah, the Orc-Slayer returns."

I felt the blood rush to my face. His voice was as smug as I had expected. I wondered if this all was an elaborate payback for the death of Uthanck's brother at Old Owl Well or if it was nothing more than orcish opportunism. I turned in my saddle, jerked my game bag loose, and flung it down at the shaman's feet.

"There," I said. He opened the bag and pulled out Ralidor's head. He grabbed it by the hair and held it out to Uthanck. They both laughed—big hearty belly laughs, so full of self-congratulation that it set my teeth on edge.

"Did you kill them all?" Uthanck asked. He looked at Ammon, not me, but I answered.

"Yes, blast you. We killed every warrior who would fight. If you want the women and the children, you will have to hunt them down yourself, you damned..." I cut myself off before I started frothing at the mouth. Ilrah had stepped closer. My horse took a nervous sidestep away from him, but the shaman wrapped his clawed fingers around my thigh, close to the wound he had given me.

"Come, Orc-Slayer, you enjoyed yourself. One-Eye knows. You rutted in the grass like a weasel when it was done. One-Eye heard your cries." He turned his face to Ammon and gave him a wolfish grin.

I reached for my sword hilt. I have never fought on horseback but Ammon had tied the scabbard to my saddle so that, in theory, I could draw the blade. I'd probably cut off my horse's ear if I did so but I was considering giving it a try. Practice makes perfect.

Ilrah released me and stepped away. I turned to his clan leader.

"If I ever have to deal with you or your tribe or your god again, I will give your shaman a new name," I told Uthanck. "That name will be Ilrah Broken-Back." My voice was shaking with fury. "And if I ever see you or any other Corpsewalker in human lands…"

A movement from one of the huts caught my eye. I turned and saw Casavir's pale, grimly set face. It was glaringly obvious that he had heard every word.


	20. Confessions in the Dark

**Chapter 20…Confessions in the Dark**

"Jess," Casavir said quietly. I hadn't heard him approach and I jerked my head up with a guilty start. Night fell quickly here in the hills and I'd been mending my clothes by mage light. Shadows danced erratically around me as the light tried to keep up with my movement.

He had hovered near me several times during the day since our unexpected meeting at the orc village but I'd managed to stay too busy to talk. He'd allowed me to brush him off earlier but I could see by the set of his jaw that I was out of excuses. The look I'd caught on Casavir's face while Uthanck toyed with Ralidor's severed head had made me deeply uneasy, particularly as I'd still been wearing my blood-stiffened robe. (Maybe one day, under Ammon's tutelage, I'd learn how to make it through a massacre without getting anything on me.)

Casavir had been in the orc village to see if they had any grain or vegetables to barter, but he returned to camp with Ammon and me after my lovely outburst. I guess my fit of rage put a damper on his trading. Ammon gave me one of his looks and then, in an unusual display of tactfulness, rode a little ahead, ostensibly out of earshot. I stole a sideways glance at Casavir. I sometimes found his expression difficult to read and that was definitely one of those times.

"Does your wound still trouble you?"

"It is healed," I said. He was quiet for a moment.

"Zhjaeve is feeling much better today as well."

My eyelids had fluttered closed as I opened a path to Bodo. Elanee once described to me how it felt to see through her animal companion's eyes, or to borrow the senses of other beasts. The tie to a familiar is different. I do not see through his senses (which would probably be quite bizarre). It is more like there is a chunk of me embedded within him that I can activate when I choose. It's like having an extra mobile eye that opens and focuses by my will.

I wasn't sure what Elanee thought of my relationship with Bodo but Daeghun had expressed his disapproval several times when I lived in his house. He considers Bodo to be enslaved, not bonded as an equal in a way he thinks is seemly. He's probably right. A familiar need be neither a friend nor a pet, although many mages treat them as such. I am fond of Bodo but, in all honesty, he is my tool. I understand why Daeghun finds that distasteful but I just can't feel that bad about it myself.

My first teacher, Tarmas was appalled when I chose a beetle. The connection with a familiar is not totally one-sided—when you put part of your _being_, for lack of a better word, into a living creature you may also take on something of its characteristics as well. Or maybe it just seems that way because the bond would never form if you weren't already compatible in a deep and basic way. I've always been weak on theory. Tarmas found it more than a little strange that I would bind myself to a verminous scavenger. _You really are a Harborman_, he'd told me, as if that had ever been in doubt.

Thinking on other mages' familiars, my choice seemed to fit me unflatteringly well. Tarmas' familiar was a raven that spoke Illuskan. I'd often wondered where he got it. The bird was curious, intelligent and even spoke with Tarmas' own ill-tempered tones. Sand's cat was a particularly aloof and patrician specimen. Qara's ferret was skittish and would put on a show of ferocity when startled. My Bodo wasn't cute or cuddly or even very bright but he was a tough little survivor who could eat just about anything and thrive just about anywhere. He really was the perfect Harborman.

At any rate, Bodo had still been watching Zhjaeve, as I instructed when I left with Ammon. With a jolt, my other eye opened. It took me a few breaths to get oriented and make sense of what I was seeing. Zhjaeve was outside, sitting under a tree. And she was wearing her veil. The sight of that ridiculous scrap of cloth cheered me tremendously.

I blinked and returned my consciousness to my own body. I managed to avoid falling off my horse during the process, so that was nice.

"Yes. She looks better. When did this happen?" I asked. There was a little frown of concern on Casavir's brow. I didn't think I drooled or did anything too disgusting when I scryed with Bodo but obviously he had noticed something.

"Sometime last night," he said.

"Oh." She'd felt better after I'd killed the bugbears. Perhaps Gruumsh's curse had not affected me alone. I could have asked what he thought but I wasn't sure opening the subject was a good idea. I wasn't sure opening _any _subject was a good idea. The silence between us grew and grew, becoming so large and uncomfortable that I'd become restless.

And so I'd caught up with Ammon and we rode back to camp. To my tremendous relief, Zhjaeve seemed herself again and she assured me that with rest, she would be able to travel the next day. I could see questions in her eyes as she took in my disheveled appearance but she held them for a better time. My Greycloaks had similar questions, no doubt, but I'd pushed them into a bustle of activity so we'd be prepared to break camp in the morning. Not that there was a tremendous amount that needed to be done, for Casavir was a great one for keeping a clean and orderly camp, but I wished to have an extra watch set, just in case. I was reasonably certain the Corpsewalkers wouldn't attack us in the night—surely they wouldn't have sent me and Ammon against the bugbears if they didn't respect our strength—but I wasn't _totally_ certain.

These thoughts ran through my head as I looked up at Casavir. The camp was quiet, with those men not on watch sleeping, or at least resting. Zhjaeve was in our tent, deep in meditation.

"I wish to speak to you," he said. "Will you walk with me?"

There was no real way to avoid the hand he offered, so I let him pull me to my feet.

"Of course," I said unenthusiastically. I set the pants I'd been patching on top of my pack. I walked over to Ammon, who was fiddling with one of the straps on his saddle bag. "Keep an eye on Bodo for me," I told him with a bit of emphasis in my voice. By his scowl, I knew he caught my meaning—that Bodo would be keeping an eye on _him_, so he'd better not get any ideas about being my invisible shadow.

"I hear and obey, Knight Captain," he said. The slight glow from his tattoos, barely visible in his relaxed state, highlighted his sardonic expression. He gave Casavir a look under lowered brows that was not very pleasant. "Do not stray too far from the camp," he told me. Presumably he shared my doubts about the orcs.

I had enough self-control to keep from making a face but not enough to stop myself from muttering, "Yes, Papa." My words were so quiet that Casavir didn't hear me. Ammon narrowed his eyes at me however. I was fairly sure that one of the charms he wore gave him hyper-acute senses—augmenting his hearing for certain and probably his sight as well. I didn't know how he could stand wearing it all the time. Grobnar and I had played around with the Amplify spell one afternoon and I could still vividly recall the headache it gave me, not to mention the hideous ringing in my ears that I thought would never stop.

Our horses had worn a path down to the river and that's where Casavir led me. There was a sliver of moon showing, not really enough to see by, but I extinguished my mage light anyway. It felt too much like wearing a beacon over my head for any who might be watching the camp. Instead, I drew my sword and let its soft shimmer light my steps. I vaguely recalled Zhjaeve telling me that Gith never unsheathed her sword except to kill. If she saw me using the sword as a lantern she'd probably have an admonition for me but I'd just cleaned my boots and didn't much fancy stepping into horse dung again. Besides, it wasn't like anyone was ever going to mistake me for Gith. The blade didn't care.

We sat on the river bank and I set the sword beside me in the long grass, near to hand. Casavir looked out over the water. I could see his profile by the light of the sword, thoughtful and composed.

"Is something troubling you?" I asked.

"That was my question for you," he said, turning and studying my face. It would have been easy to give him a puzzled expression and a glib answer; to pretend that nothing had happened and nothing had changed. But we had traveled together for too long and had been through too much for such evasions to serve. Casavir had been by my side during some very dark times. He had been a steady presence when I was accused of the destruction of Ember and reviled as a monster. He had stood as my champion in my trial by combat. He knew I had been innocent of that terrible crime and he had fought as Tyr's instrument to vindicate me.

I wasn't innocent now. Perhaps I hadn't slaughtered unarmed villagers like my childhood friend Lorne Starling but I had certainly taken a step in that direction. I'd forced a battle where none was required. And although I had not attacked non-combatants—the children and their caretakers—I might have well have done so. Once I might not have understood the consequences of killing a keep's defenders. Now I did.

I wondered what Casavir saw when he looked at me and I was very much afraid that he was now compelled by his oaths to tell me. No paladin will serve an evil leader. Everyone knew that.

I plucked a long blade of grass to give my hands something to fidget with. The sound of the river flowing below us should have been soothing. It had a different sound to it than did the river that ran through the Mere—less languid and more purposeful, as if it knew it was headed to somewhere of greater importance and was anxious to arrive.

Without preliminary, I plunged into my tale.

"I went to Riverguard Keep and I…took it," I said, leaning back a little and directing my words to my knees. "I killed the sentries. The fighters. Ralidor and his guards. Even his priests. None of them asked why we were there. None of them tried to reason with me or beg for mercy. They just kept running out towards me with their weapons out. They made it easy for me. I killed them all." I gave a little sideways look, not at his face, but enough to see his silhouette in the grass beside me. Like me, he had one arm resting against his bent knees. He didn't recoil in horror, but then he must have guessed all this already.

"Ilrah was right," I said. "Oh, I didn't want to do it. Not at first. But once I started—once they came running towards me—I enjoyed it well enough. I'm getting better at killing, you know. This is a very fine sword." My hand caressed the hilt. And then I gave a shuddering sigh and lay my head down against my knees.

"Why did you do it?"

I rubbed my hip. The scar didn't hurt exactly but it felt tight and uncomfortable.

"Ilrah said I'd have to pay in blood. I thought he meant my blood and we'd be done—but it wasn't enough. Casavir, I didn't want Zhjaeve to die. I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn't know I'd let the shaman curse me." I didn't check to see his reaction but continued to let the words spill out. "I didn't know I had to kill anyone and—well, I guess I didn't have to, really. I could have let the curse take me. I thought I understood the price but he tricked me, Casavir. And then when you couldn't remove the curse, I thought…perhaps you felt I deserved it. Or Tyr did. Ilrah told Ammon the curse would cripple me and I'd be of no use to anyone. Everything we've done would have been for nothing."

Casavir made a restless move.

"My Lord Tyr grants me some limited power to heal and restore," he said. "But I am not a priest. Removing the curse was beyond my strength but that is not to say that another could not have done so. My failure was no judgment upon you."

"Do you know that for certain?" Before he could answer, I added, "It doesn't matter now anyway. What's done is done and I can't undo it."

"What's done is _not_ done until it is understood, until you have learned from it, and until you have atoned for any wrong-doing," Casavir said. "I fear these words are unwelcome to you but I pray that you will listen, Jess."

"I'm listening but I don't know if you can help me. I used to know what to do. It's getting harder, Casavir. I'm getting stronger and I'm not sure that is such a good thing. My mistakes are getting bigger and bigger."

"I know what it is to lose one's way," he said carefully. "You are under great pressure and I fear some of the influences upon you now are…not in your best interest." I waited for the diatribe against Ammon but it didn't come. Maybe he thought there was no point to it.

"Are you going to leave me now?"

Casavir turned to me. His face was in shadow but I could feel his eyes upon me.

"Is that your wish?" he asked in a neutral voice.

"I thought that was what you brought me here to tell me."

"I do not wish to leave your service." In a stronger voice, he added, "Jess, I am bound to this fight against the King of Shadows and I will support you in any way I can. But…"

"But it would help if I didn't screw up so bad."

He shook his head at me.

"You are faced with difficult decisions and I have no clear answers for you." More quietly, he added, "I wish I did." Silence fell between us again but this time it was not quite so uncomfortable. I waited while he marshaled his thoughts.

"I have never told you how I came to leave Neverwinter's service."

"I knew you disagreed with Nasher's policies about Old Owl Well." I'd never really believed Bishop's tale that he had fled the city due to some sordid sex scandal. That was just the type of story Bishop would delight in spreading and was scarcely credible to anyone with the slightest acquaintance with Casavir.

"Yes, but there was more to it than that, I'm afraid." He continued to look out over the water. "I am not at liberty to share the details but in the course of my duties for the Hall of Justice I stumbled upon some troubling information. And I found myself in a situation where I was asked to compromise the truth…for the greater good, I was told. More would suffer from knowing all the truth than from suppressing it, I was told. I was young and I trusted those who gave me my orders. And I thought I must be wrong—that my vision of my duty was too small—for these were men I respected, you see. If I thought what they told me was wrong then…the flaw must have been within me."

He turned and met my gaze. His words were spoken with little emotion but his eyes told a different account.

"I began to question the nature of my oaths and my understanding of them," he said. "And that broke something within me—my faith, I suppose. Perhaps I lost my belief that men were even capable of dispensing justice—I feared we were too flawed to do the god's work. And so I betrayed my vows and I left Neverwinter. I did not know what to do so I put my life on trial, as it were, at Old Owl Well."

His mouth turned down unhappily. I had an impulse to take his hand but I didn't see how my touch could be of any comfort to him, especially now.

"My actions were rash. Looking back, they seem an almost childish attempt to force Tyr's judgment, to make him speak to me in deeds if he would not speak in words, but he was merciful and…he brought you to me before I lost myself completely."

"But you were doing fine without me at Old Owl Well. Look how much you accomplished, how you made soldiers out of those farmers, and you protected Callum's forces as well."

"So many died. I threw myself into any skirmish that came my way. I was fighting without a plan, without a strategy, without even knowing if that was the purpose Tyr had planned for me. And I understand all too well the attraction to losing oneself in battle. Decisions are simpler there. When you came and we entered Logram's stronghold, I learned there was an even greater evil than orcs under my very nose, and an even greater cause that I could join myself to. I am in your debt for that."

"I don't see it," I said. "But if I helped you, I am glad."

"I was at the right place for the wrong reasons. I needed guidance. I had lost faith in my ability to find answers to the questions that troubled me. And I fear that you are at this point now. Do you remember the words of Sir Grayson, when he took you as his squire? I had those same beliefs impressed upon me when I was given to Neverwinter's service. 'To serve your land is to act righteously. If your cause is noble, so too are the actions you take in its name.' Do you remember what you said to him?"

"I said something along the lines that I would let my conscience be my guide." In hindsight, that sounded both priggish and arrogant, and _not_ the wisest comment to make to the only knight in Nasher's court who had been willing to take me on. I'd been sincere enough at the time. "He didn't take that very well, as I recall."

"And have your views changed? Or are you allowing others to make your decisions now?"

"I guess you mean Ammon," I said.

"Yes."

I opened my mouth but I wasn't sure what words were going to come out. Casavir forestalled me.

"I do not wish to speak ill of Ammon Jerro but you have seen where his choices lead. He, too, was motivated by the desire to protect and serve his land. His cause was noble but have his actions been righteous? Is this what you wish for yourself?"

Before I could compose an answer, there was a rustle behind me. Bodo erupted from the long grass, scuttled up my leg and perched on my knee a moment, waving his antennae. Casavir gave him a startled look but I slewed around to watch the path.

"You might as well show yourself," I said. Ammon stepped out of the shadow of the trees behind us. Although he was not a particularly tall man, it seemed like I had to look up a long ways to meet his gaze.

"Come to bed, Jess. It is late and I wish us to have an early start," he said. "Surely the paladin has had enough time to thoroughly chastise you…and to criticize me for doing what had to be done."

"I'll come when I'm ready," I said. I thought there was a pretty clear dismissal in my voice but Ammon just stood there. "Believe it or not," I said slowly, "I am an adult and have been choosing my own bedtime for some little while now."

"I suppose so," he said and he gave Casavir such a look that I knew he was about to say something nasty. Bodo ran off for cover, as he always did when my temper was ready to flare. There was a part of me that was ready to jump on Ammon with both feet. A big rousing argument would make me feel—what? More alive? Less weary? Maybe it would distract me from my thoughts?

"Perhaps you're right," I said, trying hard not to sigh. I pushed myself to my feet. Casavir rose when I did and when I stooped to retrieve my sword, by its light I thought I saw a flash of anger on his face. "I'll see you in the morning," I told him. "Thank you." I gave his shoulder a brief pat. Ammon watched him head up the path with hard eyes.

"It's not that late," I told Ammon. "Was it really necessary to come interrupt me like that? Frankly, I don't appreciate it."

"If we are being frank then I will tell you that I do not appreciate you setting your insect on me as a spy. I was tempted to crush it underfoot."

"I don't particularly want to fight with you, Ammon, but if you _insist_…"

"No," he said. "That is not my purpose. I am anxious to leave this place and it makes me short of temper, perhaps."

One of Ammon's gracious apologies—would wonders never cease? My snort was not very ladylike.

"You cannot possibly be more anxious than I am to get away from here. But going to bed early will not make the sun rise any sooner, you know."

"Still, it is time you returned to camp. To spend so long with the paladin—alone—gives a peculiar appearance."

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"Oh, dear me, talking to Casavir is going to sully my reputation with the Greycloaks. But it's fine for me to go off with you overnight. Come now, Ammon, you can do much better than that."

"I don't like it."

"Why not?" He just looked at me. "No, really, explain it to me. You know how dense I am. What is your problem with Casavir? And don't deny that you have one."

"I have no patience with Tyrrans. They wave their dedication to justice about like a banner—until their own transgressions are brought to light. Then all they clamor for is mercy. The justice Tyr promises is little more than a ploy by the god to gather followers. There is no true justice."

If lightning hadn't struck him by now, it probably wasn't going to blast him for this particular blasphemy, but I was tempted to take a step back anyway. Just in case.

"So…you don't care for Casavir's religious beliefs? That's all?" I gave him a dubious look.

"Of course that's not all that bothers me. Are you as blind as he is? As blind as the maimed god he follows? He may not admit his motives even to himself, but he would separate you from me if he could. At least I am honest in what I want."

"If you're trying to imply that Casavir is in love with me or something, then sorry, but you are the blind one."

"And do you imply that nothing more than duty binds him to your service? I do not claim to know his mind—if he even knows it himself, which I doubt—but I can assure you that he does not like to see the two of us together. It offends him deeply."

"Well…"

Ammon put his hands on my shoulders.

"He would turn you from me, if he could, and I know his words carry great weight with you. Now do you understand my 'problem' with him?"

I was rather shaken by the intensity in his eyes but I kept my voice light. I leaned towards him a little. His fingers dug into me, pulling me closer still.

"The role of jealous suitor does not sit well on you. It's not terribly convincing, Ammon."

"Is it not?" His hands dropped to my hips. Although his face was often stern and uncommunicative, his lips could be unexpectedly expressive. It was there that I looked when I wished to read his emotions. They twitched in self-directed mockery, I thought. "It is not a role I am comfortable with, I confess, yet I am a man much like any other. I do not care to see you paying such attention to another. Particularly not to _him_."

"Because you don't like him?"

"Because if there was true justice in the Realms, you'd be with him and not with me."


	21. A Fool's Game

**Chapter 21…A Fool's Game **

I was very aware that Ammon's hands were still resting on my hips, a bit of warmth in the chilly darkness. I hadn't planned on staying so long by the river and I needed my heavy tunic. I wasn't cold enough to be miserable but I wasn't particularly comfortable either. I've never liked cold weather. I'd rather sweat all day than shiver one time.

Ammon's touch was possessive; his words had fit the part of a man stirred by jealousy but something wasn't ringing quite true. What reason had I ever given him to doubt me? He might have little understanding of Casavir's character but surely by now he had some grasp of mine.

"Do you actually believe I set Bodo to watch you so I could sneak away and cuddle with Casavir? Does that sound like something either one of us would do?"

"I know you are upset about Riverguard. But Jess, you must see that Casavir is the last person you should seek out for advice. I'd rather see you look to the githzerai for guidance, truth be known. She understands our priorities."

Praise for Zhjaeve? He'd have something nice to say about Bishop next. He answered my look of elaborate surprise by squeezing his hands around my waist.

"Do you wish to be infected with Casavir's doubts and guilt? How can this help you? I feared he was going to upset you further or…"

"Or what?" I asked through my growing irritation.

"I thought you might turn to him for comfort."

"And what if I did? Why does that bother you?"

"Because…it does."

"That makes no sense. Casavir is my friend. And you're right; I do value his opinion, despite your irrational disapproval." I gave him an exasperated look. "Should your voice be the only one I heed? Should I never leave your side or speak to another man? What do you want from me?"

I was having trouble reading the look he gave me. The light shining up from the sword held loosely in my hand cast strange shadows across his face. Could he really be as baffled as I felt? I knew he cared for me, in his way, but I didn't know what that meant to him. Could he be feeling the same uncertainty?

"Ammon, is it possible that you don't know…are you asking me for some sort of declaration?"

He hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was even rougher than usual.

"No. Now is not the time for such things."

"Of course it isn't. I daresay it never will be." I spoke lightly but his words had felt like a slap out of nowhere, sharp and unexpected. I shouldn't have been surprised or disappointed—after all, it would have been fairly shocking if he'd said something sweet and romantic—but I was still taken aback. It wasn't his words that wounded me; it was his bitter and dismissive tone.

I pulled out of his hold so I could sheathe the sword before I jabbed it into my own foot—or his. Ammon could see in the dark and I figured he would keep me from stepping into anything too foul. Once the sword was secured, he took my arm. I could feel him searching my face. I was trying to swallow down an uncomfortable roil of emotions that I didn't want to examine too closely and that I certainly didn't want him probing in his gentle and oh so comforting way.

"Are you angry?"

Oh, dear, the direct approach. Damn him for embarrassing me worse than I already was.

"Of course I am," I said. "But that's because you're driving me mad. I'm getting accustomed to it though, as much as that's possible."

"Indeed." I took a step towards the camp but he tightened his grip on my arm. Apparently we weren't done yet. The evening breeze picked up, rustling through the winter-killed weeds. The wind blew a tiny flurry of leaves against my boots. I had the sudden urge to send the shards dancing after them but I was a little afraid to experiment with the sword until I'd had time to talk to Zhjaeve about this new ability.

"I'm sure this is another of my annoying weaknesses but sometimes I need comfort," I said. "And sometimes I need to know that what we are doing is right. If we're all going to die, maybe it doesn't matter…but I think it does. We will be judged by our actions, won't we?" Ammon didn't say anything but the light of his tattoos showed his face was serious and grave. "And what if we survive? If I have to live with myself and the choices I've made after this is all over, then I need to understand what I've done."

I turned away a little but his hand caught my other arm to stop me. I sighed.

"Have you never thought about what happens…after?" I asked. "Of what we'll do with our lives if we still have them after we've cleaned up this Illefarn mess? Don't our feelings for each other matter at all? Is it really better to leave them unspoken? You say that now is not the time for such things, but how much time do you think we have?"

"It is a fool's game to wish that events had played out differently—to wish that we had made different choices or met under different circumstances and to feel regret for lost opportunities. And it is a fool's game to plan for a future that we cannot control." Instead of their normal amber, the evening's shadows made his eyes seem very dark.

"And you are no fool, are you, Ammon?"

His hands slid along my upper arms; his hold softening to a caress.

"I would not say that. But to indulge in this game—how can it help us?"

"Must everything we do serve a practical purpose?" I asked. "What harm does it do to dream of what might be? Is there no place for the hope that one day we may be free of this destiny?"

"Hope is not something I often indulge myself in. Does it bring you comfort? For me, it brings something closer to despair, I think. I leave that particular indulgence to the paladin."

I frowned.

"But let's not speak of him," he said. "Are sweet lies what you wish to hear from me?"

"Not really. Is that all there is between us?"

"You do understand that there is little I can offer you other than what I have already pledged," he said slowly. "We are bound together against the shadow but beyond that I dare not…even my name would be a burden to you and not a protection."

I looked up from my feet. Did he think this was my way of hinting for marriage? Gods, the man was dense.

"I don't need a name," I said. "I have one. In fact, I have several. Kalach-Cha or Shard-Bearer, take your pick. Or Farlong. That's what they call me—called me—in West Harbor, after my foster father. But that's only because they had to call me something. No one remembered my mother and no one ever knew who my father was." He didn't say anything. Surely my sorry history was no news to him. "I didn't mean to sound maudlin. I'm trying to say that marriage is not very important to me. I know you have a fine and noble name but I have no desire to join the nobility."

"Nasher knighted you, Jess. You are a member of the nobility whether you like it or not."

"Oh, that. That's just a technicality so I can levy taxes and raise troops without the real nobles squawking. They don't want me around, trust me. Half of them still believe I managed to get away with the slaughter of Ember. I suppose it's flattering that they think I'm clever enough to pull a fast one on Tyr." I rolled my eyes. "I'm like that other knight they whisper about—Edmund Cebari—do you know him? In other words, I'm someone handy to keep around as long as I stay decently away from the court and do what I'm told."

"Such cynicism is unbecoming in one so young." There was a smile in his voice however.

"Don't think you can take any credit for it," I said tartly. If he didn't stop harping about my age, I was going to return the favor and let him see how pleasant it was. "I've been taught by masters. Let me tell you that Sand was a bad influence on me long before you were. Even my first teacher, Tarmas, wasn't exactly a cheery ray of sunshine and some of the tales he told of the court—well, you probably know them all but they were pretty shocking stuff for West Harbor."

"I don't believe Nasher would have made you one of the Nine if he didn't plan to keep you close by his side when this is over. That is not an honor he bestows lightly. Still, my problems—and my enemies—reach far beyond Nasher's court and I do not wish you to become embroiled in any of them."

"If you're talking about our planar friends, at this point I'd say that the githyanki hate me even more than they hate you. But Zeeaire said they wouldn't be sending anyone else after me."

"Since she's dead, she's likely to keep her word. However there is always another Zeeaire. That's no ordinary silver sword you carry, you know. Do you think the Lich Queen will _ever_ give up the chance to recover Gith's own blade?"

"You sure know how to cheer a gal up," I grumbled. Well, thank goodness I hadn't missed my daily reminder of our impending doom. Trust Ammon to take what could have been a tender moment and turn it into yet another depressing litany of the problems ahead. Now why would I ever turn to another for comfort when I got so much reassurance from him?

"Still, I took all of Zeeaire's shards and without them, it will be hard for the githyanki to track me down." At his expression, I added, "Won't it?"

"All the shards are not accounted for and the ones that are missing must have been taken away from West Harbor. Otherwise, they would have been drawn to you when you remade the sword. I would very much like to know who has them now." He shrugged. "But Jess, as I told you before, the power of the shard within you has changed. It was detectable before but now it shines like a beacon. Still, the githyanki are not my worry as yet. The King of Shadows is a more pressing concern for them, as he is for us. If they cross to this plane, I believe they will seek out his stronghold in the Mere. No doubt they have realized that it is there that our paths must intersect."

I let out a loud sigh that was only a slight exaggeration of my weariness with this conversation.

"Enough, warlock. I've changed my mind. I'd rather hear the sweet lies." I gave him an expectant look. "And make them good ones."

He put his arms around me and I nestled my head under his chin. I could feel his beard against the top of my head.

"Shall we talk of our future life together? Shall we talk of the sons the shaman promised you?" I felt his breath stir my hair. "Jess, how can these lies cause anything but pain?"

"Is there harm in hoping for happiness one day?" I said wistfully. "Can't you at least try to imagine it?"

"I cannot. What happiness lies in store for us together? If we succeed against the King of Shadows, do you think Nasher will forgive my crimes? Will he forgive the deaths of three of his nobles?"

"I'm pretty sure he'll forgive you for Dalren," I muttered. Sand had filled me in on the man's traitorous activities during the war with Luskan.

"Privately perhaps, but never publicly," Ammon said. "He won't risk having his own court turn on him and there are certain truths that could harm Neverwinter if they were brought into the light. Leaving that aside, do you think he will give up vengeance for the murder of one of his Nine?"

I remembered the stony expression on Nasher's face when I had told him of Melia's death at the Moonstone Mask. Nasher himself had acknowledged my words with naught but a curt nod that could have been interpreted as indifference. However I had seen enough repressed grief in my life to know it well. I hadn't needed Sir Nevalle's white and stricken look or the concern in his eyes when he looked at our king to tell me the truth. No, I did not think Melia's death was one that Nasher would be willing to overlook.

"He stays his hand now because it is in Neverwinter's best interests," Ammon said. "Do you think he will not move against me when the threat is gone? I doubt he would be so cruel as to order _you_ to bring me to justice but neither will he spare me for your sake."

"We don't have to stay in Neverwinter."

"So you would give up your family and your friends and all the honors and responsibilities you have received to go into exile with me. To what end? Even if we prevail against the King of Shadows—and both survive—I still have the little matter of my debts to the Lower Planes to settle."

"I thought they would not come due until your death."

"Those of the Lower Planes can afford to be patient when dealing with mortals but I don't think they will be, not in my case. They know me too well. They must fear that, given enough time and enough power, I may find a way to renegotiate or even nullify my debts."

"Is that possible?"

He shrugged.

"I doubt it. I have given it little thought, to be honest. If we defeat the King of Shadows then that is where I must turn my attention, I suppose." His eyes narrowed for a moment in consideration and then he gave another shrug, as if pushing the idea away. "There are some in my bloodline with very long life spans, if the tales can be believed. And there are ways to extend my life—lichdom, perhaps."

I made a sound of distaste. Ammon stroked my back.

"I did not say I'd choose that path. My point is that in the unlikely event that I survive the battles before us, I doubt I shall be left to live out my remaining years in peace."

"Then you will need my help. I don't want to lose you, Ammon. I love you."

It was the first time I'd said those three little words—to him or to anyone—and I had hoped for a better reception than the one I received.

"Let us speak of love then, if you insist," he said harshly. "Love would have you fight by my side, would it? Love would have you pit yourself against some of the vilest creatures of the Lower Planes? Love would have you make yourself a target for their schemes? So generous, this love of yours. I know you don't think much of the choices I have had to make in my life but do you believe I am such a man as to take advantage of your naïveté?"

His thumbs dug painfully into my sides, right above the straps of my sword belt.

"It is my choice to make, not yours."

"In that, you are wrong. I neither want nor need your aid. Should I drain your life and your strength to prolong mine, to defy my just fate? Perhaps I could ask you to take some of my blood debt upon yourself. Would love compel you to do so?" He gave me an angry shake. "Do you believe I am in such fear of my fate that I would accept such a sacrifice?"

I twined my arms around his waist.

"If you loved me, you'd be thinking of ways to make this work instead of telling me how impossible it is."

"No, Jess." He pulled back a little, put his hand under my chin to make me look at him. "You know better."

"No, I don't. It sounds like you're planning on giving up."

"I don't suppose it is in my nature to give up without a fight, no matter how hopeless it may be," he said. "But this is my fight, not yours. You have your own life ahead of you. Mine is…spent."

"So you're just going to leave me, when this is over? Crawl back to your Haven and wait for the demons to come after you?"

"I will do what I must and so will you."

"If I were the one in trouble, would you just walk off and leave me when our task is done? You know you wouldn't. Why would you expect it of me? Don't be such a hypocrite, Ammon."

"The cases are not the same and you know it. My problems are of my own making and…there is little you can do to help. All you can do is to throw your life away for nothing."

"If this is all for nothing then why did you bother coming to my bed in the first place?" I could feel the tears standing in my eyes. Dark as it was, he could probably still see them. That made me a little ashamed and a little angry. When he brushed the hair out of my face I had to squash the urge to strike his hand away. "Am I supposed to believe that this is all meaningless to you? That you feel nothing?"

"You seemed determined to take someone to your bed and I thought—I would cause less harm there, perhaps. Less distraction. And I will admit that it occurred to me that if someone was to be intimate with you, to have your ear, that it was best that I do so."

Yes, he had it all planned out, all logical and rational. I might have bought this motive—if not for the heat in his eyes, the desire for ownership I felt in his hands and the way he leaned into me. He lowered his head and I raised mine.

"And I was attracted, of course."

"Of course," I breathed. Attraction is a strange and unaccountable gift from Sharess. I knew that what had first attracted me to Ammon was the fire I saw inside him like a volcano ready to vent, the sensation of a seemingly endless fountain of dangerous power barely constrained by his force of will. To live with Ammon would be as exhilarating and terrifying as keeping a dragon for a watchdog. He could say what he liked about us doing what we must do. Ammon lied to himself as easily as he lied to others. I could feel the truth of what he wanted. When the time came, it would not be logic that would rule him.

I felt his beard against my face and then his lips brushed mine.

"I thought I was wise enough to avoid the temptation of…attachment." His arms pulled me in so tight that I had to arch my back to see his face. I could feel his power curl around me like a warm blanket on a cold night.

"And are you?" I murmured. My arms went around his neck. I was vaguely aware of the sheathed sword caught between us, its silver hilt digging into my flesh and no doubt into his as well. It would have been painful if I had been able to feel anything but breathless anticipation.

"No. I am not."

"Because you love me."

"Yes, hells take me. I do."

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Author's Note: And so we reach the end of my little tale. I hope you've enjoyed the ride, Dear Reader. I've gone back and revised all the previous chapters, making little improvements here and there but nothing that will make you have to go reread the whole thing. Unless you just want to…

_:) _


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